The Woman with the Raven Hair
by Random Equinox
Summary: Miranda Lawson has done the unthinkable: she's cut ties with Cerberus and she's fallen in love. But now Commander Shepard has turned himself in to the Alliance. What will she do now?
1. Miranda Versus the Innuendo

**The Woman with the Raven Hair**

_**Editorial Note:**_

_The arrest of Commander Shepard in 2186 had a rippling effect that affected thousands, if not millions or billions, of lives to varying degrees. One of the individuals who was most affected was his girlfriend, Miranda Lawson. _

_Readers will understand that this was a difficult and painful period of time in Miranda's life. So imagine my surprise when Miranda forwarded me a series of log entries written immediately after Shepard was brought into custody. When asked, she stated that she had 'gotten what she needed out of the exercise,' and that other individuals might find it useful at some point._

_While the circumstances she found herself in had little to do with the events and developments of the previous year, readers may be interested in the thoughts and observations that Miranda made at the time. It may also be clear that, no matter how much Miranda may have welcomed the distraction that presented itself, Shepard's absence was never far from her thoughts. The 'exercise' that she referred to may very well have been the beginning of how Miranda began to understand how profoundly Shepard had influenced her in such a short period of time._

_It was relatively easy to convert these logs into chapters, along with any explanatory footnotes that might be required. I suspect determining who would have the appropriate security clearance to read them might prove a greater challenge. Regardless, I trust readers will find this informative and enlightening. Any errors or failures to make the material clear or understandable fall on me and me alone. _

_Sincerely,_

_Dr. Liara T'Soni_

* * *

**Chapter 1: Miranda Versus the Innuendo**

I stood at one of my preferred vantage points. From there, I could monitor the comings and goings of one of the busiest starports on the Citadel.

In the past, I had used such areas to complete Cerberus operations. Tracking any starships, whether civilian or military. Acquiring visual confirmation of key shipments as they arrived or departed. Following the movements of any persons of interests.

Of course, in the past I didn't trust the Alliance to stand up for humans or champion humanity's best interests. I thought the other races would either be openly hostile or settle for keeping us 'in our place' as bit players on the galactic stage. I believed Cerberus could do better.

Don't get me wrong: I still had a healthy skepticism for the various governing bodies of the Citadel races. But I was also thoroughly disillusioned with Cerberus and the way the Illusive Man ran things. With the way they sacrificed human lives when expedient, while paying lip-service to the ideal of serving humanity. The way they cavalierly made compromises, up to and beyond the ones made by governments bogged down in political and bureaucratic red tape. The way they allowed problems to escalate and metastasize into a disaster, without any meaningful effort to prevent or contain such situations, until someone else had to step in and clean up the mess.

That someone being the man I had brought back from the dead. The one I had worked with for the last year. Fought alongside in more fights and battles than I would have ever believed possible.

The man I fell in love with.

The man who, as I watched from my vantage point, was turning himself in.

Shepard had saved the galaxy—again. From the Reapers—again. This time, though, there as a price: the Bahak system had been destroyed and approximately 305_**,**_000 had been killed. Shepard had decided to own up to the way things had played out by turning himself in and answering for the staggering loss of life, along with any crimes he may or may not have committed.

I couldn't be there with him, as much as I wanted to. If I was thinking logically, I wouldn't be here at all. I should have been far, far away from here. But, despite the numerous tactical reasons that discouraged my presence here, I just had to see him one last time.

As I watched, Shepard walked out from the Normandy's airlock to greet the company of soldiers assigned to take him into custody. Garrus and Tali accompanied him, both for moral support and because the Alliance had no authority over them. I knew there were an additional four people onboard who were also waiting to be arrested. But for now, this was all about Shepard.

To my surprise, Admiral Anderson—Shepard's mentor and former CO—stepped forward. **(1)** He shook hands with Shepard. Then they indulged in small talk for thirty-eight seconds. One of the soldiers approached them, probably to put handcuffs on Shepard from his body posture. Anderson stopped him with a hand, clearly indicating that such measures were not necessary. I think that was the final piece of evidence in support of his character. Though really that was nit-picking: Shepard's high opinion of him had more or less clinched the deal.

Shepard talked to Anderson for another minute or so before making a gesture towards the Normandy. I believe that was the point where he and his squadmates went aboard, followed by Anderson and the other soldiers.

It's hard to be precise about such observations when your eyes are welling up with tears.

* * *

After they disappeared, I turned away. Originally, I had intended to stay until they left the Normandy and went to wherever they were going, but I couldn't take it anymore. I just… had to get away. Once, such a change of plans—without any obvious justification or the establishment of contingency scenarios to fall back on—would have irritated me. Now, I was more open to the idea. Particularly where Shepard was concerned. Even when he wasn't with me, even when he was being arrested, he managed to find some way to turn my expectations upside-down.

I missed him so much.

My route led me to an elevator, which took me to the Presidium. I always found it pleasant up here. The architecture appealed to modern aesthetics with the sleek monochromatic colour scheme while evoking elements of Gothic architecture with the way it stretched up and up as far as the eye could see. And yet, the really fascinating thing was that this area of the Citadel—the Citadel itself—was far older than that. The galactic community once thought it was at least fifty thousand years old. Now we knew it was countless millennia old. Regardless of the age, it was amazing that something so old could be so appealing and attractive to us now. Even those of us without an education or appreciation in architecture could enjoy it.

I also enjoyed the people up here. The clientele tended to be far more intelligent, learned and sophisticated. When they weren't being obnoxious, pompous, arrogant, egotistical or completely oblivious to the way the galaxy actually ran and operated. All right, maybe I didn't completely enjoy the people, but I suppose I was never a 'people person.' I wouldn't say that had changed, really. More like my tolerance and understanding had… increased. Or expanded. But my overall enjoyment of this area remained relatively high. Certainly I enjoyed it more than the Wards. I _definitely _enjoyed it more than Omega, though that wasn't a difficult achievement by any means.

As I walked along, I remembered the last time I was on the Presidium. Shepard was here to meet Anderson, who was hoping to enlist his services on a mission, while I was here to meet Oriana. **(2)** We had… we had played a game, identifying individuals who were trying on other targets and laughing at the flaws or mistakes that exposed their true purpose. I found myself doing the same, partly out of habit, partly in remembrance of that day.

That was when I realized I was being followed.

I couldn't quite make out any details, considering he—or she—was dressed in a grey jumpsuit from head to toe, including a dark blue helmet with a polarized visor. Blue stripes of a similar hue ran along each sleeve and each leg. Whoever my follower was, it was clear that he or she was bipedal, with bilateral symmetry, which eliminated hanar and elcor. Keepers too, for the sake of thoroughness.

Over the next few minutes, I made a few random stops. An advertisement from a passing vid-screen. Some random item of clothing displayed in a nearby shop. A kiosk whose merchandise supposedly caught my eye. Each time, my stalker gradually drifted to a halt. Definite signs of training in counter-surveillance. And the ease at which my stalker found some plausible excuse to stop and hover nearby suggested a certain amount of experience.

Furthermore, I could gauge her height: approximately 1.78 metres, which ruled out volus. And yes, I said 'she': while the jumpsuit didn't exactly cling to her body, I could make out the presence of breasts. The mere fact that I could identify a gender eliminated geth. I still remembered the pathetic failure of Citadel Security, who was fully capable of preventing a pair of asari from travelling on the ludicrous grounds that they might be geth infiltrators, but hilariously incompetent at identifying an actual geth platform _standing in front of them._

But I digress.

While the locations where I stopped may have been random, my route was not: I was purposely moving towards an area that was secluded and had virtually no surveillance—thanks to the ongoing reconstruction efforts from the Battle of the Citadel. My stalker must have realized that as well, considering that her pace increased by an average of 0.18 metres per second. I carefully brought up my HUD to confirm the status of my shields and my omni-tool, continued walking and waited for an opportunity to present itself.

Predictably, my stalker made the first move, attempting to get me into a chokehold. I grabbed the arm, shifted my stance and pulled my assailant over my shoulder. Judging by the weight, it was immediately apparent that this was not a severely malnourished krogan or a yahg. **(3)** Before she could do anything, I launched an EMP. My sensors indicated that the pulse detonated on impact, but it only reduced her shields to 49%, indicating a very strong shield generator that was portable enough to wear underneath civilian garb. Interesting.

Now that I was facing my assailant, I could get a good look at her features. The style of the clothes didn't provide any clear links to a particular race. The helmet she was wearing obscured any identifying features I would normally use, but the overall shape definitely ruled out geth. Furthermore, the lack of obvious filters or breathing apparatus eliminated quarians.

Four fingers and an opposable thumb on each hand. That in addition with the shape of the helmet ruled out turians.

That left me with asari, drell, human, salarian and batarian as the race of my mysterious assailant. Normally I'd include vorcha, but who ever heard of a vorcha wearing formless black garb from neck to toe and a helmet that completely obscured their face? Furthermore, where was the snarling and pidgin grasp of the English language? Actually, all those facts put together ruled out vorcha.

I thrust out a hand, fingers stiffened like a blade, towards her throat. She crouched slightly and leaned to the left to avoid my attack. My next attack was a feinted leg kick to her midriff. The real attack was when I retracted my leg, deliberately dropping it so it didn't brush against her kneecap so much as stomp on it. A slight cry came out from my attacker, despite her best efforts. The high pitch made it unlikely that she was batarian or drell.

Then my stalker attacked with a flurry of kicks, which I easily avoided. She overextended herself with her last kick, which allowed me to grab her and throw her against a nearby wall. I tried to use that opportunity to grab my pistol, but she recovered faster than I expected. A sweeping kick—far more professional than her previous attacks might have suggested—knocked it out of my hand. We then exchanged a series of punches and strikes, none of which landed. In fact, while I couldn't pin down the fighting style exactly, the predominant influence seemed to be karate—

—ugh! I stumbled back, thanks to another kick. One that had been expertly timed to break through my defences and landed squarely on my stomach. Again, reminiscent of karate. That strongly suggested that she was human, though I did know of some asari or drell that studied human martial arts. I launched another EMP, which completely drained her shields, before pulling my submachine gun and opening fire.

Rather than freezing, the mysterious woman lunged forward. Thanks to my superior reflexes and muscle control, I was able to graze her with two bullets before she tackled me. The submachine gun flew from my fingers as we landed on the floor and rolled around. Part of me was grateful that this was a—relatively—clean floor on the Presidium on the Citadel, not some mud pit in some godforsaken part of the galaxy. Part of me was also grateful for the lack of surveillance. Two women? Rolling around and fighting? Even with clothes, this situation would be a wet dream for countless sapients with too much extranet access and time on their hands. Or talons or claws or tentacles.

I let my attacker clamber on top of me before elbowing her in the helmet. It hurt me more than her, but the surprise was enough for me to throw her off, grab her helmet, detach the seals and pull. Blue eyes flashed at me amidst a storm of auburn hair, previously tucked up neatly within the confines of her helmet.

A very familiar set of eyes and hair. "Carina?" I panted. "Or are you going by another legend these days?" **(4)**

"Nope, still Carina," she replied. "Carina Miller. And you?"

"Still Sarah," I lied. "Sarah Walker."

"What brings Sarah Walker out of deep cover and onto the Citadel?" Carina asked.

I should explain.

I'd met Carina on four occasions. Each time, I used the legend 'Sarah Walker,' an Alliance Intelligence agent on a long-term, deep-cover assignment. The kind that meant I could go anywhere without popping up on any official list of intelligence agents. Seemed better than saying I was Miranda Lawson, former scion to the Lawson business empire and high-ranking operative of the pro-human terrorist organization known as Cerberus.

Unlike me, Carina actually _was _with Alliance Intelligence. She tended to change her last name, but her given name was usually the same. Once in a while, she used Karen or Caroline, but, more often than not, she stuck with Carina. She was fairly predictable where her cover name was concerned.

She was also fairly predictable in her banter—more specifically, the unrelenting innuendo. Frankly, I was slightly surprised that she hadn't tried to flirt with me yet. That would pass, I was sure. For now, I decided to enjoy the peace and quiet.

Meanwhile, I had a question to answer. "Following an asset," I improvised. "Trail led me here. You?"

"Looking for money."

"Money," I repeated. "Don't tell me you're settling down and looking for an honest job."

Carina gave a very unladylike snort. "Don't be silly. Me? Honest? You _do _know me, right?"

"I do. What was I thinking?"

"I'm here to steal some money," Carina elaborated as she got up. "And you're going to help me."

"I am, huh?" I said with mild amusement, taking the hand she offered and letting her pull to me to my feet. "Couldn't you just have called?" **(5)**

"Now where would the fun be in that?" Carina laughed.

* * *

Carina told me to meet her that evening at Purgatory. At first, I thought she meant the maximum security prison ship. That one formerly owned and run by the Blue Suns over in the Osun system, before Shepard, myself and several other men and women attempted to recruit an ex-convict. Since Shepard was involved, what should have been a simple exchange turned into a running gunfight that tore the entire station apart, killed several prisoners and most of the mercenaries and gave us a volatile, loud-mouthed and crass biotic. But no, Carina meant the Purgatory Bar, a nightclub that had recently been opened. While it was still fairly new, it had become quite popular amongst the various races that visited or lived on the Citadel.

It took me a while to find it—the Citadel VI Avina was of no use whatsoever, insisting there was no such place. However, it was actually located on the Presidium, several floors above the Presidium Commons. **(6)** In fact, it was fairly close to the area where Carina and I 'met.'

Purgatory was just like every nightclub I'd ever visited: filled with bright strobing neon lights, lots of shadows and music so loud you could feel the vibrations reverberate through your bones. And that's for a normal human. For someone like me, whose senses were genetically enhanced to a near-unprecedented degree, it was borderline torture.

The clientele was also what you'd expect: young, stupid, drunk, high or all of the above. Most of them were sweating profusely, either from all the dancing they had done or a reaction to whatever pharmaceuticals they'd drank, snorted or injected. And yes, I could smell it all too. Along with the inevitable vomit. Fun.

With a practised effort, I locked that sensory cacophony in a corner of my mind and started looking for Carina. All I had to do was keep my eyes open for a tall human woman with red hair and supermodel-good looks who was shamelessly flirting with, well, anyone.

While the interior of Purgatory was fairly large and fairly dark, I was confident I could find her. Red hair is a genetically recessive trait, after all. It would be harder to distinguish natural colouring from the dyed equivalent. If I was a betting woman, I'd say it would take me at least ten minutes to find her.

I found her in six minutes, forty-nine seconds. Which was why I was not a betting woman.

She was busy flirting with a human about half her height, with a haircut and beard that was definitely longer than military regulations allowed—which wouldn't have mattered were it not for the Alliance uniform he was wearing. The look of utter rapture and delight on his face told me he still couldn't believe his luck. Carina had that effect on people. She'd probably picked him specifically because she'd sensed that she would get that very response from him. That was one of the things that amused her to no end, along with dropping her mind into the gutter on a moment's whim and wreaking havoc just for the hell of it.

Repressing a sigh—not that it would have been heard over the noise—I reached over and tapped her on the shoulder.

"There you are! 'Bout time you showed up," Carina cheered. "This is Sarah," she said, turning to her thrall. "Like I said, she's never on time."

Ex_cuse _me? This from the woman who forced us to delay that job on Bekenstein because she got held up trying on lingerie?

Carina's companion looked disappointed. Evidently he'd been told that once I showed up, Carina would leave and his magical evening would come to a sudden and abrupt end. Even she saw that. "Oh don't worry," she soothed. "If we finish clubbing early enough, I'll give you a call. Okay?"

He cheered up again. How predictable.

"That was a bit cruel, don't you think?" I murmured as we walked away. "Leading him on like that?"

"Please," Carina dismissed. "I just gave Martin more thrills and excitements in the last half hour than he's had in his entire boring little life. You call it cruel? I call it charity."

"Martin," I repeated. "That's his name? People still name their kids 'Martin'?"

"I guess," she shrugged. "Or was it Morton? Can't remember. Not important any—ooh! Seats!"

I silently approved of Carina's choice: against the wall, relatively secluded considering the claustrophobic confines of the nightclub and located close enough to one of the speakers to frustrate any eavesdroppers without that speaker drowning out our own conversation. Not that I would ever say so to Carina. Her ego was large enough already. **(7) **

We had just sat down when a very attentive waiter approached us. "Welcome to Purgatory," he greeted us. "Would you like something to start off with? Or do you need some time to look at the menu?"

What I needed was a drink. Preferably a drink that would take some time to make, time I could spend finding out what Carina was up to. "One 'Perfection', please," I requested.

"I'll have a 'Red Headed Slut'," Carina ordered, giving the waiter a lascivious wink. I resisted the urge to add several more alcoholic beverages to my original order.

The waiter took our order in stride, much to Carina's disappointment. "Oh stop pouting," I told her. "Did you really think you'd get a reaction from him? He's probably numb to orders like that by now."

"I suppose," she sighed. "So what've you been doing?"

"Hiding. Listening. Waiting. The usual," I shrugged. "And you?"

"Living a life of danger and excitement. Flying around with a license to thrill, meeting new lovers in every port."

This was how Carina and I often began our... encounters. I'd sidestep her inquiries with some vague platitudes while she would offer some ridiculous boast. In the past, I'd often marveled at how we could manage to work with each other, given our different personalities. After the last year, though, I think I had a better appreciation of the synergistic potential that could arise from pairing such disparate elements.

As a result, instead of resisting the urge to strangle her, I surprised myself by humouring her. "Really? You did all that? Hard to imagine. It must be difficult, being the centre of the galaxy for so many sapients."

"You have no idea," she sighed, raising a hand to her forehead in a dramatic gesture. "My great burden to bear, along with my devastating good looks."

I yawned.

To my surprise, Carina got down to business instead of reacting to my feigned boredom as an affront. She brought up an image of a human male, Caucasian, in his mid-sixties. "Recognize him, Sarah?"

"René Benoit. Also known as 'La Grenouille.' Intergalactic arms dealer. Rose to power as the primary supplier of guns and weapon mods for the criminals, pirates, slavers and mercenaries of the Skyllian Verge, mostly by buying out or muscling out most of the competition. The long-term contract he signed with the Blue Suns is still the talk of the galactic community."

I paused before delivering the punch line: "Which is good for Alliance Intelligence, considering we've been trying to make him the biggest arms dealer in the galaxy, one who we'd be in a position to control and influence, for the last twenty-odd years."

"That basically sums it up," Carina approved. "Though I don't think you're cleared to know some of that intel."

"Like you're one to judge," I reminded her.

"Touché," she conceded.

"So this is about La Grenouille?"

"Indirectly."

"Are we indirectly helping him or hurting him?"

"Helping. Ever heard of Alexei Volkoff?"

"As in Volkoff Industries?" When Carina nodded, I continued. "He's been around longer than La Grenouille, though no one's ever been able to put a face to his name. But I haven't heard of him or Volkoff Industries for years."

"That's because he lost a lot of business and men, thanks to several missions from the Alliance, the Salarian Union _and _the Asari Republics," Carina told me. "Apparently the level of tech in some of the weapons he was selling made a lot of people wet their pants. Or panties. Anyway, he managed to go underground before anyone could catch him or get a vid-pic of his face. We lost track of him... until now.

Carina pulled up another image on her omni-tool. Red glove holding a silver hammer in front of a red gear. I would've identified it as the logo of Volkoff Industries even without the name spelled out along the rim of the gear. "Volkoff Industries is back in business. We're not sure whether Alexei is still in charge or whether there's a new player using the old name. All we know for sure is that they resurfaced in the Terminus Systems and have been very busy mediating all sorts of deals. We weren't too concerned until we got a report from one of our _other _deep-cover operatives. Seems that Volkoff Industries is currently in negotiations with some high-level representatives from Eclipse."

"Impressive," I admitted. "Even a single deal from that exchange would increase their respect and reputation considerably."

"Which is why we want to stop them," Carina said. "Especially if Alexei Volkoff is still running things. He didn't have La Grenouille's... restraint. Kind of a loose cannon, to be honest."

"Sounds familiar," I said dryly.

"People keep saying that," Carina frowned. "Wonder why?"

I didn't think she was serious. Contrary to the airs she liked to put on, she was quite aware of the rumours that circulated about her. Mostly because she was the one who put them out in the first place. "What exactly is the mission?" I asked.

"As proof of Volkoff Industries' capabilities, Eclipse has asked them to acquire a shipment of M-560 Hydras. New class of missile launchers. Just came out. **(8) **So Volkoff has sent one of his sales reps to acquire the Hydras from an intermediary and deliver them to Eclipse.

"The trick is that there's a very tight timeline, imposed by Eclipse to see how Volkoff Industries can fare under pressure. Any delay, no matter how small, could derail the whole exchange, in which case any deal with Eclipse would go up in smoke."

"And that's where we come in," I deduced.

"And that's where we come in," Carina nodded. "We've received intel that the Volkoff rep is coming to the Citadel for a brief stopover before meeting with the guy who's got the Hydras. To buy the Hydras, he's been given access to one of Volkoff Industries' accounts. If we can find out the details to that account, we can drain it dry. Without any funds, the rep can't buy the Hydras, which means he can't sell them to Eclipse, which means any working relationship with Eclipse falls apart before it can ever begin."

"All right," I said. "Who's the representative?"

...

"Carina? You do know who the representative is, don't you?"

"We're working on it."

"Working on it. Meaning what, exactly?"

Before Carina could reply, the waiter came back with our drinks. I waited until he left before leaning forward. "You were saying?"

Carina took a sip first. Deliberately to stall for time and piss me off, no doubt. I refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing my displeasure, so I followed suit. We managed to get halfway through our drinks before Carina gave up and started talking again. "We have a few ideas on who the rep is. All we know for sure is that he—or she is arriving on an inbound transport tonight. We have an agent following along to keep us updated. Don't ask me who—he's some new guy I never met before."

"You mean you never slept with him before," I smirked.

"That too," Carina admitted.

"Let me see if I got things straight," I said, leaning forward. "You want to sabotage a relationship between Volkoff Industries and Eclipse before it can begin by thwarting one of the formers' weapons purchases. The sales rep making that purchase is coming here and is being tailed by an Alliance Intelligence agent."

"Who I've never slept with," Carina added.

I sighed. "Who you've never slept with," I dutifully, albeit reluctantly, repeated. "This agent will presumably tell us when they've docked."

"Yep. Then we can intercept the rep and sweat the intel out of him. Or her."

"By that you mean interrogation."

Carina put in an air of innocence. "Of course. What did you think I meant?"

She knew very well that I thought she meant a foursome in some dark, dingy alley. But if she wasn't going to say it aloud, I certainly wouldn't. She hadn't made nearly as many unwanted and painfully blatant advances as I might have expected, and it was in my sanity's best interest to encourage that line of behaviour. I took another sip of my beverage. Not bad, I thought. Too much strawberry liqueur, but otherwise fairly decent.

A beep sounded from Carina's omni-tool, somehow making itself heard amongst the surrounding din. "Showtime," Carina declared after a quick check. "Docking Bay B19. ETA: ten minutes."

I ran some mental calculations. "It'll be tight, but we should be able to make it," I decided.

"Then let's get going." Carina chugged down the last of her drink—probably in a deliberate attempt to show off her long, pale neck to, well, anyone who was watching—before slapping down a few credit chits on the table and hopping to her feet. I looked at my drink; decided it wasn't worth finishing and followed suit.

* * *

"Did I mention how I love your new hair colour? Or perhaps I should say your _old _hair colour?"

We were flying towards Docking Bay B19 in a skycar. Carina had rented it. Which meant that she flirted with the salesperson the entire time. And the manager. And obtained both of their contact information. Just for practise, she said.

But back to Carina's question. The last three times we'd met, I'd dyed my hair blonde. The first time, however, was not planned. Much like the circumstances I currently found myself in. Which meant I had my normal hair colour. "You didn't mention it," I replied. "But thank you."

"It suits you," Carina offered. "And they say blondes have all the fun."

"There's no statistical proof to back up that statement."

"True. I mean, just look at me."

I didn't.

"Nothing? Really? You really need to loosen up, Sarah. Get out, relax, drive some guy wild before kicking his sorry ass out the nearest—oh, here's the parking spot. There's a maintenance ladder about a hundred metres to our left that'll take us to a good vantage point. Clean sight lines. You can see all of B19 from there..."

Carina might have a plethora of irritating qualities but I'll give her this much: she could buckle down to business as soon as the situation required it. "Understood."

"Also makes for a great view while you're doing it—"

Of course, she was just as quick to revert to innuendo if the opportunity, however small or indirect, presented itself. "Carina," I snapped, hoping to head her off.

"You're right. Work now, orgasms later."

Dix... neuf... huit... sept... **(9)**

Mercifully, she brought the skycar down without any more intimations. "How are you doing on thermal clips?" she asked.

She could have asked earlier, I thought. "I could use an extra clip," I said instead.

"You did use up most of one trying to tag you earlier," Carina conceded, passing a clip over.

"Trying? I hit you. Twice."

"Flesh wound," she dismissed.

"Still counts."

"Thank God for medi-gel. Come on."

The elevator was 97.6 metres from where we parked. Close enough to Carina's estimate, I decided. We made our way up to the vantage point she'd mentioned... where we ran into what Shepard would call a little snag. "When was the last time you used this spot?" I asked Carina.

"Five months, maybe six," Carina frowned. "That spotlight was definitely not there before."

Said spotlight created a huge blind spot that cut off 47.1% of our field of view. The only way to compensate was either to hang from the rail and stretch outwards or... "One of us will have to stay here, the other one has to watch from the other side," I decided.

"You go," Carina said. "I just did my nails and I don't want to chip on climbing over that big-ass spotlight. Which has nothing to do with the fact that I wanna take another look at yours."

I gave Carina a look. "One, did you just say I had a big ass? Two, didn't you already check it out nine times so far?"

"One, no because I just said they were not related," Carina retorted. "Two, it was ten and you know it."

Actually, it was eleven. She knew it. I knew it. Rather than belabour the point, I climbed over, giving Carina her twelfth opportunity to ogle one of my many genetically perfected assets.

Then we waited. "Bay's clear from my end," I reported. "Just three dock workers."

"I think I can see one of them, plus two more over here," Carina replied. "Hey, did you do something with your hair?"

"What's the name of the transport? What's the ETA? And shouldn't you know the answer to that? Blondes, fun, and so on and so forth?"

"MSV Mighty Mouse, two minutes and counting, yes I remember but something's different about you."

"Good to know and 'mighty mouse'? As opposed to the regular mice?"

"Beats me. I'm as confused as you are. **(10)** By the way, you're dodging the question."

"I'm not dodging the question. I already answered it: I changed it from blonde to black. Other than that, no, my hair's the same. One minute to go."

"Huh. Thought it was the hair. Forty seconds. Ah, there it is."

"Well it's not the hair. You're losing your touch, Carina. Okay, I see the transport too."

"Don't worry, Sarah: whatever's going on, I'll figure it out. Even if I have to kiss it out of you. Mark my words—ooh! Just got a message from our agent."

"And?"

"Sales rep is Peyman Figgins. Human. Black hair, though he's balding a bit. East Asian descent. Sending his profile to you now.

I received the data stream, quickly scanned it, then resumed my surveillance. Fourteen seconds later, a man matching Carina's description exited the airlock. "Okay, I see him."

"Ditto."

I watched him and extrapolated the most likely paths he would take based on his body posture and the angle of his walk. "He's probably heading out the north exit, right outside the lot where we parked the skycar. You'll be able to monitor him longer, so I'll head down the ladder first and wait next to the parking lot."

"Got it. I'll follow once I lose sight of him. Meanwhile, I'll contact the other agent and tell him we have three people following Figgins."

After a quick glance to double-check my extrapolations, I climbed back over the spotlight. To my relief, Carina was actually focusing on the task at hand. How did I know this? Because she didn't make a suggestive remark or check me out. "What's the comm frequency you're using?" I asked as I passed her.

"Charlie-nine-two."

It didn't take me long to get to the ladder, climb down and make my way back to the parking lot. That was easy. The hard part was the waiting. Just sitting there and doing nothing. In the past, at least I had something to do in the meantime. Review my many lists of pending items while scanning the crowds for my target. Remind myself of the remaining maintenance reports to finish while noting any unusual activity that might denote the presence of hostiles. Wait for a certain commanding officer to finish digging for random items in obscure locations while wondering what arbitrary comestible he might select to pair with jasmine tea...

God I miss Shepard.

"_OK guys, I'm going to lose eyes on Figgins in three... two... one... yeah, I got nothing. Heading down now."_

"_I got him, Ms. Miller," _an unfamiliar male voice replied. Clearly the voice of the other Alliance agent. Clearly a rookie if he was using such a formal tone of address. **(11)** Carina must have sensed that, because she didn't try to correct him or turn on the flirtations for fear of throwing him off his game.

"_Uh... hang on."_

Of course there was a complication.

"_Problem?" _Carina asked.

"_Figgins just took a hard left. He's cutting through the duty-free shop."_

It didn't take long for me to mentally pull up a map of the area, visualize Figgins' path and assess traffic patterns, surveillance coverage and other variables to determine the various intercept points available. Carina did the same thing. _"If he doesn't pull any more sudden turns, he should leave the shop and pass by a couple food kiosks. After that, he'll either enter a turian restaurant or walk into an alley. I'll cover the other end of the restaurant. Sarah; watch the alley."_

"_Got it," _the agent replied.

"Understood," I said.

I made it to the alley in fifty-seven seconds. This time, I didn't mind the wait so much. Running calculations on all the possible permutations and choices Figgins could take from his last known location was a great way to pass the time.

"_Looks like he's heading for the alley."_

That was fast. Figgins must have been speedwalking.

"_Okay. He's in the alley. I'm in pursu—eeeeeeekaaaaaaadcarhhhssssgggggggghhhhhhhhhhh!"_

I barely managed to stifle my wince as the feedback squealed into my ear. Yet another thing had gone awry. What I wouldn't give for Shepard to be here. Or, at least, his knack for adapting to unforeseen and usually unfortunate developments.

"Sarah!" Carina called out. I turned towards her as she jogged towards me. "You heard that too, I guess."

"Yes," I replied. We pulled out our heavy pistols in unison. "Shall we?"

"Let's do it."

We entered the alley slowly, guns raised. Step by step. The darkness of the alley enveloped us like a smothering fog. At first, all I could see was black. All I could hear were the sounds of our footsteps and our quiet, measured breathing.

Then everything began to change.

Amongst my many genetic enhancements is the ability to quickly adjust to varying levels of illumination. So my eyes were the first to pierce the gloom of the alley and make out a body. "I think our agent friend is dead."

"You're sure?" Carina asked, squinting into the dark.

"Nondescript haircut, nondescript clothes. Lack of dishevelment rules out a long-term Citadel resident who's fallen on hard times. I also smell blood. Fresh."

"What're you, a vampire?"

Ignoring her, I concentrated on what lay before me. What I picked up next made me tense. Not much, but enough that Carina noticed. "Sarah?" she prompted.

"I hear beeping."

"Beeping? Normal kind or bad kind?"

I strained my ears and listened. What I heard... "The frequency's increasing."

"Bad kind. We gotta run."

For once, I agreed with her. We turned in unison and broke into a run.

The bomb exploded three seconds later...

* * *

_(1): Alliance shorthand for 'commanding officer.' I should add that, despite Miranda's genetically enhanced vision, she could not have made out all this detail without mechanical assistance. In addition, Anderson insisted on being the senior officer assigned to bring Shepard into custody, a move that irritated many Internal Affairs officers, various senior officers and politicians within the Alliance._

(2): This mission would be to intercept a handoff of data between Cerberus operatives on Illium. This mission is covered in another set of Shepard's logs and need not concern us further at this time.

_(3): The latter would be highly unlikely, considering they had yet to achieve spaceflight capability by that period, but not completely impossible. _

_(4): Also known as an alias or a false identity, this term is often used in the intelligence community._

_(5): That would imply that Carina had been given the clearance—probably codeword protected—to know how to contact the deep-cover Alliance Intelligence operative known as Sarah Walker. _

_(6): A bureaucratic error that was not be corrected until well after the Reaper War, resulting in much confusion as to whether it was in the Wards or on the Presidium. In fact, it was situated several floors above the Presidium Commons. _

_(7): A potentially hypocritical remark, given Miranda's pride in her abilities and accomplishments._

_(8): Produced by the Alliance, the M-560 Hydra launched a barrage of miniature missiles, each with an independent targeting system for locating enemies and a series of shaped, sequential charges that could penetrate through kinetic barriers and armour plating to hit the target. While just entering Alliance use at the time of this mission, they would become fairly widespread throughout the galaxy by the end of the Reaper War._

_(9): Ten to seven in the human language of French, for any readers who are curious. _

_(10): A human vid-series in the mid-twentieth century about an anthropomorphic murine superhero of the same name. And I was as confused and bewildered as they were. _

_(11): Not necessarily. Not all agents call each other by their familiar name. Miranda may not have been aware of this. _


	2. Miranda Versus the Best Laid Plans

**Chapter 2: Miranda Versus the Best Laid Plans**

I felt the shockwave first.

My back was turned, so I didn't see the bright flash of light, the burning, seething roil of fire and smoke. So that left the shockwave, which knocked me off my feet. Landing on the hard, cold floor was a bit jarring, but nothing too painful. And at least it meant that the flames and shrapnel flew above, rather than into, me.

No, the worst part was the noise. I don't know how long the rumbling and roaring lasted, but it was agonizing in its intensity. And in the tight confines of the alley, everything was amplified. Anything that wasn't destroyed by the explosion absorbed all that energy and released it as sound. Howling, vibrating, resonating sound.

Back in Purgatory, I recognized that as loud as the music might be, it was only borderline torture. For good reason: what was assaulting my ears now? What I couldn't get away from? _This _was torture.

Carina managed to recover first. Perks of only having Alliance-grade genetic enhancements, even the so-called 'elite' package afforded to intelligence agents, military officers and politicians—their senses usually weren't amplified as much as mine. She asked me something, though I couldn't hear her through all the ringing. I couldn't read her lips either, as my vision was a bit blurry from the tears that had welled up from all the pain. I wiped the tears from my face.

Guessing that my hearing was impaired, Carina switched to sign language. **(1)** _Are you okay?_ she signed.

_Ears ringing, but I'm fine, _I signed back.

_Good, _Carina continued. _Because someone must have heard that bomb go off. We should go._

That would be the smart move to make. The plan was blown, literally. The mission was seriously compromised, if not a complete write-off. And there were no contingency plans in place to account for this situation. We needed to get away, retreat to somewhere safe, and plan our next move.

But then, just as I was about to agree with Carina, a thought occurred to me. Like a fast-growing seed, it took root in the hidden recesses of my mind, growing and blossoming until it burst into full bloom amongst my thoughts. An idea that could salvage this operation. It was quite a long shot, by my standards. It was hardly well-planned or thought out. So why did it appeal to me?

Maybe, I thought, because it was an idea borne out here in the field. On the ground. Where the situation is always fluid, always changing. And the best operators, the best agents, are not always the ones that can analyze that situation, formulate plans in perfect detail and account for every development that might occur. Sometimes, the best are the ones who can adapt on the spot. Like Shepard did.

_No,_ I shook my head. _We should get up high. To the catwalks. _**(2)**

Carina stared at me for a second before realizing what I was getting at and recognizing that we only had a very limited amount of time. Hauling me to my feet, we made our way out of the alley and over to one of the myriad maintenance elevators that are located all over the Citadel, yet go completely unnoticed by the majority of the populace, even people who have lived there for dozens of years. We made our way up to the catwalks, then circled around to a vantage point overlooking the alley where we'd almost lost our lives.

Below us, we saw a multitude of people scurrying around like ants. Civilians of all species flocking to the alley where they'd heard the explosion. Talking excitedly amongst themselves. Pointing, either at the alley or up above their heads at the smoke wafting up and dissipating into the air. C-Sec officers, made obvious by their uniforms, were pushing their way through the crowd to investigate, dissuade civilians from doing the same or to set up a perimeter.

I didn't care about them. I wasn't interested in anyone who was standing or sitting still. Nor did I concern myself with the people moving towards the alley. I was looking for someone else.

And as my eyes scanned the crowds, I found that someone else. I grabbed Carina's arm and pointed.

She looked, squinted and nodded. "That's him," she declared. It was with some relief that I recognized that she was speaking aloud. "That's Peyman Figgins. Couldn't resist sticking around to watch."

"Amateur mistake," I sniffed. "But one that worked in our favour."

"He's walking away," Carina said. "You follow him from here. I'll go to the catwalk on the other side and shadow him from there."

"Good," I approved. Seeing he had walked a fair distance already, I began to hurry after him.

"Sarah?"

I turned back. "Yes?"

"Good call," Carina said. "I knew it was my lucky day when I bumped into you."

* * *

After a few minutes of watching and following him, it became clear that Figgins was not particularly proficient when it came to counter-surveillance. Granted, he stopped at several locations along the way to look for any tails. But the intervals between these checks were too regular, too predictable. And some of the spots he chose were not ideal. Too many obstacles in the way, for example. Not to mention the way he broadcasted his intentions by blatantly looking around. He might as well have been walking around with a holo over his head.

Another mistake I observed was how he moved. He walked too quickly, as if he was in a hurry. His body posture was another giveaway: I could predict when he would turn left or right and when he would simply walk in a straight line.

It was clear that he'd received some training, but did not have enough experience to properly apply whatever he had learned. I could have sympathized, but I was never that bad. A testament to my superior training, perhaps? Or perhaps I was deluding myself, glossing over various errors to assuage my wounded pride. **(3)**

Of course, all the training and experience in the galaxy wouldn't have helped if he never looked up. And he never did. Not once. Amateur.

With the inadequate precautions Figgins took, it was child's play to follow him. "Carina, is he going where I think he's going?"

"_The Nevos Hotel and Conference Centre? Probably. Wait—make that definitely. No way he's going to the Mega Nine Motel unless he takes a hard right in three… two… one… and he's missed it."_

"He could still take an elevator," I reminded her.

"_You do remember how many stories Nevos has, right? He'd have to go up—or—down—for quite a while. Then he'd have to backtrack. I don't think he's that sneaky. Not after the last twenty minutes."_

Good to see Carina had formed a similar impression of Figgins' appalling display of tradecraft. And it was eighteen minutes, twenty-four seconds.

Sure enough, he reached the Nevos Hotel and Conference Centre. I told Carina to maintain overwatch from the catwalk while I descended, just in case he decided to sneak back out. He didn't, but better safe than sorry. Unlike Figgins, we weren't hilariously incompetent.

"Well," Carina asked when she joined me.

"Figgins joined the line-up at the entrance desk," I replied. "There was only one person ahead of him. About six minutes later, he received something from the desk clerk and went to the hotel elevator. Based on the time that passed, it's likely he went up to his room."

"You saw all that?" Carina marveled. "Hey, maybe that's what's different about you. Did you get any more enhancements to your eyesight?"

"No."

"You're sure? No genetic tweaks? Not even an ocular implant?"

"No."

Carina gave me a curious look, but let it go. "All right. Then the next thing we have to do is find out where his room is."

I closed my eyes and pulled up a mental map of the hotel from the last time I had been. Though that was three years ago. They could have made renovations since then. "Is the security office still down the hall from the ladies' washroom?"

"Yep," she confirmed. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"If you're thinking the Nevos Hotel and Conference Centre is about to get two more guests, the answer is yes," I replied.

"Nice to see we're on the same page."

"We'll need a distraction."

"See? I knew we'd make a good team."

"We're not crashing a skycar."

"Aw…"

"And you're not taking your clothes off."

"Spoilsport."

* * *

The only snag to my plan was that we weren't properly equipped. No one would believe that two women would check in without any luggage. Not unless they were escorts or prostitutes—which would have been an acceptable, albeit annoying, cover if we only needed to infiltrate the hotel once. But we didn't know whether we had to get back in or not.

As it turned out, Carina had more than enough luggage for the two of us. It was easy for her to log into the Citadel intranet, check out of her current lodgings and have her belongings sent here while I watched from out front and made some reservations. Once she confirmed they were en route, we entered the hotel.

Of course, Carina had to mix things up because, well, she was Carina. "Check-in for two," she told the clerk. "Vesper Lynd and Camille Montes."

I had the feeling that there was a reason behind her choice of our legends, but I hadn't the slightest idea what they might be. **(4) **

"One moment," the clerk said. "Yes, I see you just made a reservation… twenty-three minutes ago."

"It was a spur-of-the-moment decision," I explained.

"I see. Well, your reservation has been confirmed for room 218. You can go there now or wait until your luggage arrives."

"You mean it hasn't showed up yet?" Carina gasped.

"No…"

"Well how could that be? I thought you were a five-star establishment?"

"Yes, but…"

"So where are my bags? Don't tell me you lost them."

"Ma'am—"

"Do you have any idea how expensive they are? They're made of leather. _Real _leather. From actual cows. From Earth. Not that cloned crap or varren hide or some other trash. _Real _leather. And you lost it?"

"Ma'am, we—"

"Where's your supervisor? I want to talk to your boss. Right now. You get him on the—"

"Hey!" I hissed. "Stop it. It's coming any second now. You're just tired from the trip."

"Well you would be too if you had to wait two hours to go through the mass relay. You know, I should write and complain."

"You do that," I said. "Over there. On the couch."

"Fine."

"Fine."

Carina stormed off. I turned back to a very grateful clerk. "Where's the nearest washroom?"

"Right around the corner, two doors on your left," he replied, pointing a finger in the appropriate direction. "You know… there are a couple other rooms available if you'd like, um, more space."

"Tempting," I said with a wan smile, "but I think I'll be okay. I just need a few minutes to freshen up."

With that, I went to the washroom. A few minutes should be enough time to hack into the server mainframe and find out where Figgins' room—

My genetically enhanced hearing heard a dull thud, followed by the alarms of several skycars going off. I hastily stepped aside as several security officers bolted from the security office and sprinted towards the front. The door closed, but not before I saw that it was now completely empty.

It would be easier to access the server from the security office. Of course, that meant I would now have to disable the vid-cams so no one would notice a guest entering a restricted area. Thankfully, I made a habit of observing them—both their locations and their movements. I just had to wait 1.4 more seconds, fry one with a quick EMP and slip into the office.

For a moment, I thought I might have to hack into the mainframe. Something that Shepard would have been good for. He rarely talked about it, of course. Not the ease at which he bypassed locked doors. Nor his ability to routinely make a mockery of the encryption embedded in a supposedly secure safe or datapad. He never boasted about how he routinely beat any and all efforts to spy on him in the comfort of his own quarters. And he certainly never mentioned how he adapted almost effortlessly to the changes and updates made to cyber-security in the two years he spent dead. He just… did it. **(5)**

I didn't have to do any hacking. The security personnel had left in such a rush that they forgot to log out. A bit of luck there—something Shepard also had in spades.

Now let's see. I could search for Figgins but, if anyone cared to do any follow-up or searching, that path of inquiry would be too easy to trace. It would be easier to search for rooms that had been recently assigned or people who had just checked in. Say, within the last forty minutes.

Sixty-eight hits. Too many to winnow through, given my narrow window of opportunity. I did some thinking, interpolating when Figgins entered the hotel and when he finished checking in, and decided to restrict my search to anything between twenty-five and thirty-five minutes ago.

The list of potentials narrowed to seven. Much better. Of the seven possibilities, three were women and another three belonged to a turian family. Now it was possible that Figgins had been assigned the wrong gender in the computer or had a turian wife. But it was more likely that he had checked in as a human male under the name Vijay Nadir. If so, we could find him in room 319.

I made my way back to Carina. Her—or, perhaps I should say _our_—luggage had arrived. We made our way to the elevator, much to the relief of the clerk, and went to our room.

White ceiling, white walls—with the exception of one accent wall that was black—and white carpet. Glass table with haptic computer interfaces and holo-projectors. Drawers and cabinets made of some kind of polymer and stained black. Leather furniture scattered around the room—also black. Compared to the suite at the Grand Mirage on Illium, Shepard and I had shared, the quality wasn't quite as good—minor imperfections in the glass, marble tiles were of a slightly lower grade. **(6)** And the room was much smaller. Though by Citadel standards—or, let's face it, galactic standards, this would definitely be amongst the top tier of luxury accommodations.

Carina displayed a surprising degree of professionalism in immediately activating her omni-tool and beginning a sweep for any surveillance devices. I did the same. Between the two of us, it didn't take long to scan her suite. Nothing. We were safe.

"Did you set up any distractions while I was away?" I asked. "Say, something that set off a lot of skycar alarms?"

"Oh yeah. That. When I was climbing down from the catwalk to join you, I might have dropped a shaped charge."

"'Might have.' You didn't think this was worth mentioning before?"

"I figured we'd need a distraction to find out where Figgins is hiding. And you wouldn't let me crash something or do a striptease. Which reminds me: where is he, anyway?"

"Based on the time that he came in, he's in room 319 under the name Vijay Nadir," I replied.

"Don't suppose you were able to get anything else?" Carina asked hopefully. "Where Figgins is meeting the guy with the weapons, maybe? Or maybe a really long number, like the one for the Volkoff Industries account?"

"How could I possibly get that from the hotel mainframe?"

"I dunno," Carina shrugged. "I've seen you pull off bigger miracles than that before."

True. Though after bringing Shepard back from the dead, it would be pretty hard to top that one. Parting the Red Sea, perhaps. But not much else.

"Besides, the sooner we finish this, the sooner we can move on. I have an appointment with the Consort that I absolutely can't miss. Wait list is obscene, you know. Even if you know the right palms to grease or people to—"

"Yes, yes, it takes quite some time," I interrupted hastily. "We shall endeavor to bring this mission to a successful conclusion, despite the unforeseen complications we have endured thus far, so you can go get thoroughly pampered."

"Amongst other things," Carina added impishly.

"Of course," I sighed. "Any ideas?"

"Figgins is a man."

"Brilliant."

"And we are women. Two women who, in my modest and humble opinion, are incredibly beautiful, undeniably gorgeous and absolutely hot."

"You want to seduce him," I said flatly.

"Threesome works just as well as a foursome."

"No."

"Oh _come on_, Sarah. Geez! Loosen up, why don't you? Honestly, you really need to get…"

Wait for it.

…

That was odd. She should have finished that sentence by now. I turned around. Carina had a look of dawning comprehension on her face. Very strange. "Carina?"

"Oh, you're right," she said. "That plan won't work."

"Carina Miller, admitting she was wrong?" I asked sarcastically. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Well I did just survive an explosion in a confined space."

"So you're potentially suffering from a concussion or some other head injury. I've suspected that all along. Explains a lot."

"Funny. I don't hear any bright ideas from you."

"We know his room is directly below us. I say storm in with guns drawn and make him tell us if he values the integrity of his kneecaps."

"Really? _That's _your brilliant plan? So blunt and crude and, well, gauche? Why don't you tell me your _real _plan?"

I should explain.

After narrowly surviving a few missions together with our skin—and, for my part, my sanity—intact, Carina and I had worked out an unofficial protocol for planning missions. Carina would throw out something vaguely plausible but generally outrageous. I would reject it and offer something equally ludicrous, with similar results. Then I would suggest something that actually had a chance of succeeding. Carina and I would identify any potential problems that would have to be addressed, then we'd agree that that would be our course of action.

So that's what we did. For once, I didn't even get a migraine.

* * *

The plan was fairly simple.

First, we needed to set up a vid-cam to monitor his room, one with a feed linked to our omni-tools so we'd know when he left. Carina offered to do that. I insisted on doing it just on general principle. Carina offered to flip for it. I agreed. Then she swiped the vid-cam and left the room before I could stop her.

She soon returned. "Did you set it up?"

"Yes."

"Were you caught?"

"No!" Carina exclaimed. "Geez, I'm not some rookie."

"Did you flirt with anyone on the way?"

"No."

"Really?" I asked dubiously.

"I did get propositioned by every man on the way back."

Sure she did.

Second, we would wait until he left. Not surprisingly, it didn't take long—it was time for dinner, after all. Granted, there was the possibility that he would order room service, but that's what contingencies were for. But that never happened.

Once he left, one of us would follow him, intercept him and find some way to stall him. The length of time required was unknown, so that lucky individual would have to draw it out for a while.

"_Hello there! Is that a single malt scotch you're drinking?"_

Carina volunteered to take care of that task. Well, seduce him was what she said. Followed by a string of suggestions and fantasies that grew increasingly improbable—and anatomically impossible—by the second.

"_As a matter of fact, it is. Imported all the way from Earth."_

Ah. Figgins was in the bar. Excellent. Talking and flirting over a drink—or several, knowing Carina—would definitely keep him out of his hotel room while I searched his room for anything that might provide a hint as to his next move.

"_I love a man with taste." _

Aside from getting lubricated—with alcohol and, potentially, other fluids—Carina would also surreptitiously copy the contents of his omni-tool. Easily done, if you had the training, the tools and the wardrobe. Which we did. We could go over anything we found back at Carina's suite.

_Are you on a connoisseur, dear lady? And—more importantly—can I buy one for you as well?"_

Of course, there was one minor problem. "Carina," I hissed. "I'm on the move. And by the way—thanks for not telling me that you had spotted the target until you had already established contact with him!"

"_I'm not really a connoisseur, per se. I just know what I like and, when I see what I like, I make my move before it—or he—disappears. More fun that way."_

Translation: she'd decided to throw in a new variable all on her own. At least Shepard would give you some warning first. As for that last comment, while she'd undoubtedly added it to rile me up, she probably decided that the change in plans was warranted, a judgement that was well within her purview as the agent on the ground. Unfortunately, this development meant my window of opportunity had just closed ever so slightly.

"_But why stop with just one drink, hmm?"_

As a result, I had to leave the room and hurry down the hall a full 0.52 metres per second faster than my normal stride. Nothing too fast, mind you. But definitely faster than I'd have preferred. Naturally the elevator was occupied. As was the next one. The third one was not, but that was because it was out of order. So I had to take the stairs instead. Which meant that when I emerged on the third floor, I had an extra eighty-seven metres of distance to cover.

Getting into Figgins's hotel room was the first break I got: an _actual _employee was pushing a cart full of towels. While he was drooling over my breasts, I copied the employee master key code from his omni-tool. The slight jolt that ran through my body was a particularly loud laugh from Carina that stemmed from a particularly bad joke from Figgins. It was not the disgust I felt as I watched the employee's drool dribble down his chin and onto one of the towels. Though I did feel a slight pang of pity for whoever received those towels.

Once I got into the room, I began my search. No countermeasures or precautions put in place to alert Figgins of any unexpected intruders. The computer was easily to crack. No programs or files other than the standard package that you might find in any hotel. Along with the inevitable advertisements for local deals, packages and the latest vid to be released.

I shut down the computer as Carina talked Figgins into buying her another drink—vodka martini, this time. Shaken, not stirred—and continued rummaging around. **(7)** Drawers had nothing other than clothes. Suits and dress shirts—all silk, albeit some of the cheaper variety. Some sweaters—mostly cashmere, though one was a cotton/polyester blend. A few jumpsuits, cut in last year's style.

Not to mention hair. Lots and lots of hair. Either Figgins had a pet that had a serious shedding problem or Figgins himself had a serious shedding problem.

And I saw no signs whatsoever of any pets.

The only items in the safe were Figgins' passport and a few stacks of hundred- and thousand-denomination credit chits. As for the bed, I saw nothing but cotton sheets and pillows. And hair. I even checked underneath the bed, along with every drawer, chair and table. Nothing.

My omni-tool gave the telltale beep associated with an incoming text message. Since this was not my first time, I did not flinch or jump, thereby avoiding an opportunity to bump my head into the edge of the table. Once I was safely out of harm's way, I checked my omni-tool.

_Coming up soon._

She wasn't kidding. Figgins was definitely suggesting that he and Carina finish their drinks and retire to his room for the evening. He thought he was being suave, subtle and sophisticated. Sadly, he was anything but.

I quickly moved to the bathroom. Someone had gone a little overboard with the number of mirrors, I thought. And the sleekness of the sink didn't really match the style of the counter. But interior decoration aside, there was nothing suspicious.

_Get out!_

Maybe Figgins was the kind of guy who kept anything business-related on his omni-tool. He wouldn't be the first one. But something felt… wrong? No, not wrong. I felt a… reluctance to leave. An irrational urge to stay, with no evidence or proof whatsoever to back it up. What most people would call a hunch.

If I was someone who routinely listened to my intuition, I might have decided to stay. If I was someone who had more time, I would do another search. But I had neither an inclination to follow my nonexistent 'gut' nor the time to stick around. I had to go.

Just to satisfy myself, I increased the sensor gain on my omni-tool and began another scan. It would have to be fast and cursory, since I had to leave. So I wasn't expecting to find—

_BEEP!_

Huh. Lucky guess.

My omni-tool just happened to be pointing at the showerhead. I peered at it, looked around, then reached up and unscrewed it. A tiny, irregularly-shaped device fell out. The centre consisted of a roughly square box with one curved corner. A cylindrical tube protruded from one end while a flat wafer extended from the other. It looked like a greybox. **(8)**

I quickly sent a one-word text to Carina: _Stall! _

It took me almost a minute to access the greybox and scan its contents. Twenty seconds to return the greybox to its hiding spot. Seven seconds to leave the room, plus an extra two seconds to make sure I'd left everything exactly as I found it. I was just about to leave...

...when the door indicator light flashed green. That was it. I'd run out of time. It took less than a nanosecond to go through all the possible hiding spots and calculate the likelihood of getting there in time and concealing myself without leaving any traces that would give my presence away. Having settled on the best option, I retreated to the bathroom. I made it just before Carina and Figgins came stumbling in.

My genetically enhanced hearing allowed me to hear every word, moan and collision against various surfaces. More's the pity. "I—mmph—I've—*thump*—never done this before," I heard Carina exclaim breathlessly. If it wasn't for my self-control, I might have given myself away with a fit of hysterical laughter.

A quiet beeping noise chimed out. To my horror and chagrin, I realized that I had forgotten to set my omni-tool to mute or vibrate. How could I have made such a careless and amateur mistake like that? That oversight could have given away my position and blown this entire mission! Idiot. Stupid, stupid, idiot!

Thankfully, Figgins was too caught up in the throes of passion to notice. After changing the settings on my omni-tool and giving myself a thorough, albeit silent, reaming out, I checked my omni-tool. It was a text message from Carina: _Where are you?_

Not surprising: Carina was so well versed in seduction protocols that she could do them on autopilot, which freed up plenty of mental processing power to focus on other matters, such as the mission. **(9)** _Trapped in Figgins' washroom_, I typed back.

Forty-five seconds later, I heard the distinct sound of bed springs squeaking, followed by a "Someone's getting excited." Figgins, judging by the timbre of the voice.

"I think we've waited long enough," Carina purred.

Then I had to endure what seemed like an eternity of rustling, squeaking, panting and moaning—something I really wished I could delete from my memory. I was beginning to consider the merits of shutting my eyes and clamping my hands over my ears, despite the obvious tactical dangers of cutting off my situational awareness, when the aural torture came to a sudden and abrupt halt.

The silence proved to be just as torturous, in its own way. I checked my omni-tool: three life-signs in the room. Well, one life-sign in my location and two life-signs roughly superimposed on top of each other in the adjoining room.

"Um... hello?" I heard Carina call out. "You can come in now."

Had Carina subdued Figgins? Or was this a trap?

"Can you help me?"

Wait. Was Carina actually asking for help? This I _had _to see, trap or no trap. I emerged from the bathroom, ready to launch an EMP or biotic barrage as the situation warranted...

...and, for the second time, almost succumbed to a fit of hysterical laughter. "Carina," I teased. "Letting Figgins go on top? How very unlike you."

If looks could kill, the glare Carina shot me would have vaporized me into a cloud of subatomic particles. "Are you going to help get this hairball off me?"

I did condescend to help her.

After taking a vid-pic or two, of course.

* * *

"Oh my God, Sarah! I haven't seen anything that shaggy since my target's dog two missions ago!"

"Is that why you gave him a dose of tranquilizers?"

"I have never been so grateful for them since... well, last month actually."

We had just returned to our room. Carina was still talking about how repulsed she was about that particular attribute of Figgins's physique. "That bad, huh?"

"Ew," Carina shuddered. "I can't believe I _touched _his… his…"

"Chest?" I suggested.

"_Yuck!"_

"Did you get anything from your download of his omni-tool?"

Carina shook his head. "Already scanned it for the usual keywords. Nothing."

"Run a full system scan," I suggested. "I need to work up a program to access the greybox remotely anyway. Unless you want to plug it in your head."

"Considering where it's been?" Carina snorted. "No thanks."

Then she yawned. "Look: do what you want. If this vision of beauty is gonna maintain her flawless complexion and gorgeous face, she needs her beauty sleep. I'll scan the cloned omni-tool again tomorrow."

"All right." I turned to begin my analysis of the greybox. I watched her out of the corner of my eye, which was how I noted something, well, unusual.

In the past, she would flirt outrageously. She would coax and plead me to come to bed with her. She would saunter slowly to her room, shedding item after item of clothing with an ease that would make any other woman green with envy. She would pause, tilt her head ever so slightly, and deliver a smouldering gaze that promised an unbelievable evening full of carnal worship and ecstasy. She would deliberately program the keypad to keep the doors open before slowly entering her bedroom. And if you chose to follow her, she would be waiting for you. Lying on the bed with nothing but the smile on her lips and the promise in her eyes.

This time, she kept the banter to a minimum. She kept her clothes on. She entered her bedroom without any fanfare.

This time, the door closed behind her.

* * *

_(1): A language using manual communication and body language—such as hand shapes, hand orientation, movements of hands, arms or body, and facial expressions—instead of words or other acoustic sounds. While there were many kinds of sign language, it is not clear which one Miranda was referring to. _

_(2): Readers may recall that Shepard used a similar tactic to assist his squadmate Thane Krios on a personal mission to help his son._

_(3): Miranda might not have made this kind of admission a year ago, even to herself._

_(4): They were the names of love interests of the fictional human spy James Bond, from the vids Casino Royale and Quantum of Solace, respectively. _

_(5): Yes, that was just like Shepard._

_(6): Miranda is referring to a mission Shepard and his squad completed on Illium to thwart a Cerberus handoff on behalf of Alliance Intelligence. The details can be found in another set of logs and need not concern us at this time._

_(7): A reference, intentional or otherwise, to the favoured drink of James Bond. Perhaps Carina was a fan. _

_(8): A neural implant that converted memories or data into image files. A greybox was successfully stolen by Shepard and legendary thief Kasumi Goto during the 2185 Bekenstein heist._

_(9): Only Miranda would phrase it in that particular manner._


	3. Miranda Versus the Party Crashers

**Chapter 3: Miranda Versus the Party Crashers**

_"Is he here yet?"_

"No."

_"Oh."_

After all the trouble we'd gone to follow Peyman Figgins, from surviving his bomb to tracking him to seducing/distracting him while we searched his room, we'd encountered a problem.

_"Is he here yet?"_

"No."

Neither the contents of his omni-tool nor the greybox had any information on the Volkoff Industries accounts. We double-checked and triple-checked before running an exhaustive search for any files that might have been deleted, only to come up empty.

_"Is he here now?"_

"No."

Based on his recent travels, he hadn't been anywhere near the locations Alliance Intelligence had identified as meeting locations for the last six Volkoff Industries deals.

_"How 'bout now?"_

"Same answer as the last twenty-three times."

Shepard would call that 'a little snag.' He always did have a fondness for understatement. **(1)**

_"That would mean no?"_

"Brilliant."

"_Did you expect anything less?"_

The only thing we did find is a pair of e-mails that had been sent within the last ten hours. One was from Figgins, reporting that there had been at least one person following Figgins and that he'd been 'dealt with.' The other e-mail was a reply confirming the hit and setting a meeting outside the Orbital Lounge at 1130.

"_I'm bored."_

"I'm Sarah. Pleased to meet you."

"_A joke? From you? Now I _know_ something's different with you."_

So Carina and I waited until Figgins left his room and followed him. He wound up sitting down two seats from the location that Lantar Sidonis—the turian who had betrayed Garrus back on Omega—had waited. The location where Shepard had risked his life by standing between Sidonis and Garrus. Urging the former to explain why he had turned traitor and how his actions had haunted him. Buying time for the latter to see that vengeance would bring him neither satisfaction nor peace.

Shepard was like that.

_"I guess he still isn't here?" _

"You'd know if you looked."

Carina was looking, of course. She was looking from the same vantage point Garrus had used to set up his sniper rifle, when he'd planned on firing a bullet through Sidonis's eye. I was sitting 23 metres away from Figgins, pretending to read some entertainment magazine. It didn't seem wise for the woman who'd slept with him the night before, or so he thought, to conveniently be in the general vicinity of his supposedly secret meeting the following day.

As for the banter, well, this was how Carina passed the time. With me, anyway. She was fully capable of waiting and watching with her eyes while a stream of banter, conversation and occasional flirtation poured from her mouth like a broken faucet. As far as I could tell, she would continue doing so until the target arrived or I lost my patience. Needless to say, the former won out every time.

I refused to give her the satisfaction of a pointless victory, after all.

As the minutes passed, I found myself watching my surroundings more and more. Partly because I didn't really care about something as trivial as the box office numbers from this week's vids or the latest celebrity gossip. Partly because I was wondering where 'Tony'—the person Figgins was supposed to meet—was. The time was 1144, which meant Khan was fourteen minutes late.

Maybe Khan had a legitimate reason for the delay. Maybe he was accustomed to being a big important person and his tardiness was a deliberate move to emphasize his status.

Or maybe... I pretended to turn my attention back to the e-magazine I was 'reading,' casually activating my comm in the process. "Tony might already be here, watching to see if Figgins was followed," I murmured. "See anyone like that?"

"_Stand by_," Carina replied, without a trace of the egotistical banter she'd displayed earlier. She knew how serious this possibility was. At least, she'd treat it seriously initially. Later was another matter entirely.

While I waited, I raised my head and looked around again. There was a salarian bickering with a volus over some business deal. Hardsuit bio-sensor mods, from what I overheard. The volus seemed to have the upper hand.

A pair of humans enthusiastically making out in public—something Shepard and I had never done, no matter how tempting it might have been. He'd proposed something similar when we were last on Illium. Well, actually he'd suggested something a little more... physical and pleasurable. At the time, the thrill of potentially getting caught and the exhibitionism that would go with it was countered by the refuse and filth that filled even the alleys of Nos Astra. Don't get me wrong: I was still disgusted. But part of me... was curious at how that theoretical scenario might unfold. Maybe I needed a mental and psychological evaluation.

As an officious turian C-sec officer shooed the couple away, I saw an asari talking to Avina. She seemed to be getting quite frustrated with the Citadel VI, judging by the way she was waving her arms.

I couldn't see anyone who might be acting suspicious, but I could only scan the 180 degrees in front of me. Only a fool or an amateur would crane her neck around to look behind her and give away her attention to any suspicious passersby.

That was what Carina was for. "Anything?"

...

Assuming she wasn't distracted. "Are you looking for Tony or staring at my ass?"

"_Could you blame me? It's such a—hang on. We might have something. And... yes, possible Tony sighting at—make that two... three... four... okay, four people. Judging by their movements, three of them are casing the area for the fourth. If I was a betting lady, I'd say that guy's our friend Tony."_

Betting, yes. Lady, no.

"_And now that guy's making a bee-line for Figgins from your left... wait a sec... yeah, that guy _is _Tony. Damn, I'm good. I should buy myself a lottery ticket."_

I glimpsed him out of the corner of my eye three seconds later. Middle Eastern features, average height, neatly trimmed beard. He looked familiar somehow. I may have stared at him for an extra 1.27 seconds longer than advisable before pretending to read an actual news article about some crazy plastic surgeon. **(2)** "You recognize him," I stated more than asked.

"_Oh yeah. Anthony 'Tony' Amad. His family made a fortune in oil during the late twentieth century, only to blow most of it all away on booze, luxury items, drugs, mansions and hookers. Family fortunes recently rebounded after investing in various eezo mining companies as a silent partner." _

"And you know all this because..."

"_When a guy has a lot of credits in his accounts and spends them on great parties and really, smoking hot staff, I make it a point to know everything I can about them."_

"That's all?"

"_Well, Alliance Intelligence might have him on their naughty list of people linked to various terrorist groups." _**(3)**

"I love your sense of priorities," I murmured. "Ah: looks like they're about to chat. Stand by. Don't bother me unless you have to."

When you've spent your entire life with genetically enhanced senses—such as hearing—you learn to selectively filter out anything extraneous and irrelevant and focus on what really matters. In this case, ignoring the dimwitted human yakking about everything she bought today, the bickering between the salarian and the asari because the latter forgot their sixth month anniversary, the drunk turian who felt the burning need to sing his national anthem off-key and Avina reciting a list of directions very loudly because the previous user turned up the volume too high. Once I screened all that out, I was able to eavesdrop on them.

"Mr. Amad," Figgins began. "Very good to meet you again."

"You're sure you dealt with everyone who was following you?"

Clearly Amad preferred to skip the social pleasantries and get right to business. Once, I would have approved. Now... all right, I would still approve, but I had a little more tolerance for paying lip surface to small talk if necessary.

To his credit, Figgins quickly adapted. "Yes. I identified one tail, led him into an alley and took him out. Then I rigged a device to detonate whenever it detected any bio-signs enter a one-metre radius of the body. A few minutes later, it did so."

"And you're sure you weren't followed?" Amad pressed.

"Absolutely. I took every precaution."

No he didn't.

"Very well." Amad activated his omni-tool and typed a few commands. "Here is your payment, as promised."

Figgins checked his own omni-tool. "Wonderful doing business with you. See you tonight."

He got up and quickly left. Amad waited about two minutes and thirty-nine seconds. At two minutes, forty seconds, a man whose physique and posture screamed 'bodyguard' passed him. Amad got up and began to follow him. I glimpsed another likely bodyguard join them before they left my field of view. It was likely that the third bodyguard would join him. But it would be incredibly foolish and unprofessional to turn around and watch them leave. Carina would have to confirm their departure.

She did so fifty-three seconds later. _"Clear."_

"I'll meet you back at your place," I replied.

Just in case, I waited another three minutes and seventeen seconds before getting up. Carina was on the computer when I returned to our hotel room. She wasn't searching for porn, probably because her personal experiences could outdo anything available on the extranet. The fact that she occasionally took her job seriously might have helped. "So what did they talk about?" she asked when the door closed.

I quickly summarized the conversation. "What are you doing?"

"When I saw Amad, I began thinking. Figgins was never a person of interest, unlike our good friend Tony. He finances smuggling operations for drugs, not weapons. Based on what you said, it's more likely that _Amad _is the guy Volkoff Industries sent to broker that weapons deal. Somehow, he found out that someone might be following him in an attempt to thwart that deal, so he hired Figgins to intercept that guy and stop him."

"A reasonable assumption," I agreed. "But if Figgins is in the drug trade, why would _he _be hired to clear the way for a weapons deal?"

"Before he got into the drug trade, he was a freelance hitman. Apparently being a middleman is a bit safer. And more glamorous."

"I suppose he has a point," I grudgingly admitted. "Once you came to that conclusion, you began searching for..."

"Three things. First, the location of his private yacht: Bay C10. It's a safe bet that we can find the specifics on those Volkoff Industries accounts on the yacht's mainframe."

"So all we have to do is figure out a way to get aboard."

"Which brings me to item number two: remember how I said Amad throws a lot of great parties?"

"Yes."

"His next party is tonight. A perfect excuse to infiltrate the yacht."

"And sample all the alcoholic beverages. And ogle the guests and staff."

"Yes, because I'm _that _good."

I had to admit, that was a perfect way to get onto the yacht. Though I would never phrase it in quite that manner. "That could work," I allowed. "All we need to do is—"

"Get on the reservation list?" Carina asked. "Just finished doing that while we were chatting. Three for three. Now that that's taken care of, we can focus on the important stuff: what to wear. I already have a ton of outfits that would be perfect because, well, it's me. I don't think any of them would fit you, though. You know what that means?"

"Recalling that dress that caught my eye when I first stepped foot on the Citadel, going to the extranet site of the store that had that dress, buying it and paying the extra credits to have it custom-fitted to my exact measurements?"

"Um... well, actually, I thought we'd go shopping and you could try various dresses on for size. While I watched you slip in and out of all those dresses. And maybe helped you out."

"Uh huh."

"Lingerie's optional, by the way."

"Of course."

* * *

Much to Carina's disappointment, I stuck with my idea of shopping. Her idea did have merit. But if I ever followed that option, I had another individual in mind to replace Carina. And he was currently cooling his heels in lockup.

I did need her help zipping up, though. So I suppose she did get her wish after all. More's the pity.

We would probably make quite the impression when we arrived at the party. Carina was putting on a short fuschia-coloured number with a subtle lining of black lace. Just enough to offer the suggestion of intimate lingerie without actually violating the dress code. I was wearing the royal blue dress that I claimed to have first seen the other day. That wasn't true, of course. I had been keeping an eye on it for several months now. During that time, I had generated multiple scenarios to wear it. Most, if not all, of them involved Shepard.

How I wished he was here, now, preparing to go with me. But he wasn't here. Carina would have to do.

We also had to prepare for more… aggressive situations. Our dresses didn't leave much to the imagination. While that would certainly provide a distraction—except for anyone who was highly professional or didn't find human females attractive—it also imposed certain limitations on what weapons we could carry. Certainly heavy weapons, sniper rifles, assault rifles, shotguns and submachine guns were out of the question. Heavy pistols might be okay if they were stripped down and disassembled. Even in their collapsed form, there was no way we could fit them underneath our dresses without making their presence blatantly obvious. And of course there were our omni-tools, which really could do anything.

As I put on an earring, I caught her watching me. "What?"

"Sarah, is everything all right?"

Of all the questions Carina might ask, that was definitely not one of them. I turned my head towards her. She actually looked serious. Concerned. Maybe even worried. Very strange. "Sure," I lied. "Why?"

"You've been acting just a little bit off ever since we met. And I know I go on about me, myself and I, but I can shut my mouth and listen every once in a while. So…"

She trailed off and stopped talking. For once. Clearly extending an invitation for me to talk about what was on my mind. Or rather, 'who.' But I couldn't. The thought of… which I had never… and so soon after he said… and I said… and I might never see him again except on some mainstream sensationalist news feed crowing about all the horrible things they were accusing him of when the truth was so much greater and…

…no. No, I couldn't. I couldn't because that would mean saying… or admitting that… I… felt… I don't know. I mean, I did know. I said it, after all. But was it… I did mean it. But how did I know I was being absolutely truthful and accurate? It's not like I've done this before. Or felt this way before.

Things were so much simpler and straightforward before I met Shepard. **(4)**

Clearing my throat, which had suddenly felt dry for some reason, I reached down for the other earring.

Seeing that I wasn't about to talk about what was on my mind, Carina let it go and tried a different approach. "You know, once this mission is over, why don't you come with me on my next assignment? It might not be as exciting as, well, whatever your deep cover thing is, but I'm sure we could have some fun. Right? Right?"

She nudged my elbow with a catlike grin on my face. Much to my surprise, I found myself smiling back. Well, a slight smile. Barely a twitch. The corners of my lips might have moved a few millimetres upward.

"Do you ever stop and wonder what if…"

"What if we led a different life?" Carina finished. "If we weren't spies? If we were just two smoking hot women who were about to have the best night ever on some rich guy's yacht?"

"Yeah. That."

Carina made a _pfft _noise. "Nah."

Of course not. She had far too much fun as a spy. Besides, if she wasn't a spy, she might have to take a good hard look in the mirror and acknowledge how she couldn't afford to trust anyone. To let anyone in. Which would mean realizing how lonely she was.

Terrifying, really. **(5) **

Putting down her mascara stick, Carina gave me another look. "You… need another minute?"

"No," I smiled, lying again. "I'm ready. Let's go."

I watched as Carina packed up her mascara stick, her lipstick, her blush, her other lipstick and… "Um, Carina?"

"Yeah?"

"Is that what I think it is?"

"Yeah."

"And you're putting it with your cosmetics because…"

"I don't want to lose Pierre."

My eyes widened despite my best efforts. _"You named your dildo?" _I screeched.

"Doesn't everybody?"

* * *

Somehow we made it to Amad's yacht. Carina led the way. Which meant I could devote the necessary mental resources to deal with a certain image. I wasn't able to delete it, but I could certainly bury it as deeply as possible.

The yacht stood out from all the surrounding ships in its gold and white splendor. The former was paint, of course. Even with the best in kinetic barriers, gold was far too malleable a material to be used in starship construction. Ironically, it was not the most expensive—the Silaris heavy ship armour retrofitted to the hull of the Normandy would have cost more, simply because the net cost of coating a starship of that size far outweighed the cost of covering it in gold. Even gold plating.

But I digress.

Carina's hacking—while it undoubtedly was not close to Shepard's level—proved sufficient for the task at hand. The guards at the door took one look at the tickets Carina provided, nodded and let us pass. Then they turned their heads and checked the two of us out from behind. I have to admit, I couldn't blame them.

The interior was draped in luxury. The richest and glossiest of curtains and tapestries adorned every wall, tied back only to reveal some exquisite painting or expensive sculpture. Mostly Persian, but there was the odd asari piece on display. The carpet had a gold and white pattern, just like the yacht's exterior.

The main hall was filled with people from a variety of different races. It almost reminded me of the Citadel, only… smaller. And I don't just mean in terms of physical dimensions, though it was clearly more confined than the grand sprawling vista of the Presidium. The guest list was clearly restricted to a handful of races. I saw no batarians. Or krogan. Vorcha were also off the list. Geth were definitely a no-no. And the thought of quarians being present clearly didn't bear mentioning. There was clearly no need or want for keepers. No one wanted to hear the hanar proselytize to the heathen masses. Or the elcor drone on ad nauseum.

No, the majority of the clientele were asari, human, salarian or turian. Though there were a handful of volus. And a lone drell—no, make that two, talking to each other quietly in the corner.

"Psst," Carina hissed. "Sarah. Game on."

"My game is, in fact, on," I returned. "While you've been busy staring at that asari's breasts, I've been locating the sixteen vid-cams situated in this hall."

"Hey! That was only for a few seconds."

"Fifteen."

"Whatever," Carina dismissed. "I was trying to figure out if they were fake."

"They are. And what were you doing in the meantime?"

"ID'ing the thirty guards in the room. Twenty armed with M-3 Predator pistols, ten packing M-5 Phalanxes."

"Excellent," I said. "Did you happen to see Amad?"

"No. And I don't see anything that might give us access to the yacht's mainframe."

"Which means we won't get the Volkoff account information here. So the only way to get it is to find a way to slip out and search the rest of the yacht. The question is how. Even if we stick to the blind spots of all those cameras, we won't be getting past the guards. Not the ones at each and every entrance, anyway."

"Right," Carina agreed. "What we need is a distraction."

"You wouldn't happen to have another shaped charge conveniently lying around, would you?"

"Fresh out."

"Pity."

"I could always—ooh!"

"You're keeping your clothes on."

"Huh? No, that's not what I had in mind."

Now I was really worried. I had to hurry to catch up to Carina, who was determinedly making her way through the crowd to… "Oh no."

"Trust me."

"No, no, no."

"I know what I'm doing."

"You never know what you're doing," I protested.

"Just follow my lead."

"This is a bad idea, Carina. Stop right here. Carina, are you listening to me?"

Silly question: she never listened to me. "Hi there!" Carina chirped.

Peyman Figgins turned around. "Well, hello again!" he beamed. "I didn't expect to see you again. Back for another round?"

It was a testament to Carina's training that she suppressed any and all shivers of revulsion. "After last night? You bet."

"Well, I figured it was so… intense that we just passed out."

"Oh, we did," Carina cooed. "Which is why I'm so glad to bump into you. I told my sister all about you."

Her what now?

"Really?" Figgins asked. He tried to give me a suave and debonair look. It came across as more of a sleazy leer. He checked me out from head to toe, which sadly gave me a chance to see the tuft of hair sticking out of his shirt. While he was distracted, I glared at Carina. She gave a half-hearted shrug of apology.

"You know, I'm good friends with the owner of this yacht," Figgins told us.

"Wow. That's amazing. Have you been here before?"

"Yes, I have. Many times."

"Wow. Could you, um, give us a tour?"

A little strong, I thought, but this did seem to be the best way to accomplishing our objectives. "We'd be ever so grateful."

"Really? How grateful?"

Carina practically draped herself against Figgins. "You know what Mommy always told us when we were kids?"

Figgins asked. "No. What did she tell you?"

"Always share," I said, playing along despite my better judgment.

It took Figgins a moment to figure that out. "Really?"

"Really," I confirmed. Somehow, I managed not to roll my eyes. Using that word for the third time in less than twenty seconds. Honestly, would it kill him to be a little more original?

"Well, I think you should listen to your mommy," Figgins declared. He wrapped one hairy hand around Carina, put the other around me and led us towards the nearest exit.

I stifled the urge to pull away and run screaming from the room.

* * *

For all of Figgins' many undesirable qualities, I'll give him this much: he did know his way around Amad's yacht. He gave a very thorough tour of every single deck, pointing out little facts about every feature, from the mini-casino to the exact forest that provided the wood for the paneling.

"What's that?" I asked innocently.

"Oh that's the server room," Figgins said, barely giving it a glance.

"Ooh," Carina said. "Sounds important."

"I guess," Figgins shrugged. "It houses the VI that helps regulate everything on this ship, from the sensors to the life support. Mr. Amad keeps a lot of important files in there too."

"Wow," Carina enthused. She took a step forward.

Figgins stopped her before she could enter the room. "You should probably step back," he said. "If anyone other than Mr. Amad tries to get in, the server room will seal itself off. Then the VI would suck all the air from the room. After that, Mr. Amad's security would arrive and… eliminate the threat." He cocked his hand in the shape of a pistol—for which I was grateful as it meant he was no longer clutching my ass—and made a firing noise. Carina and I gasped in unison.

"I wouldn't do that, of course," Figgins reassured us. "I'm, uh, more of a lover than a fighter." His hand drifted back to my ass. I made a noise of surprise.

"Oh, uh, yes you are," I managed, forcing a giggle. "Um, where should we go next?"

"Well, there's an art gallery we could check out," Figgins suggested. "After that, I think we'll go to the conference room. Mr. Amad meets only the most important people there. And I think you two ladies definitely qualify."

For some reason, that concerned me. I had nothing concrete, mind you. Only a few extrapolations of worst-case scenarios. What some people might call paranoia. But, over the last year, I had learned to pay a certain amount of attention to that… well, that paranoia.

Thankfully, it was my habit to find a more constructive means of dealing with paranoia than freezing in a mental and physical state of paralysis. I generated contingency scenarios. It's what I do.

And one of those scenarios just happened to cover this general situation that Carina and I found ourselves in: outside the server room but unable to enter it and no guarantee of when—or if—we would ever come back. My scenario called for one of us to upload a VI program into the yacht's mainframe, which would then scour every program, file and message for the Volkoff Industries account information or anything resembling that mission objective.

The restriction of no one being allowed in the server room was not an issue, considering that the VI could be transmitted from something as basic as an omni-tool. Technology is a wonderful thing, you see. We only needed two things. First: an unobstructed path to transmit the VI upload—what Shepard would call a clear line of sight. That prerequisite was met.

Second, we needed a distraction. Not for the vid-cams: both Carina and I had sufficient tradecraft to upload the VI without making any moves or gestures that the yacht's VI would interpret as a threat. No, we had to avoid arousing the suspicion of the hairy beast currently groping our asses.

I met Carina's gaze and shifted my eyes towards Figgins. At first, she didn't react. Either she had forgotten this scenario—selectively or because she was daydreaming at that particular point in the planning—or she simply didn't want to play her part. But, after 1.3 seconds, she began babbling some flirtatious nonsense while wrapping herself around Figgins. Heavy petting was involved, as if she was mapping his body in an effort to identify him by touch in the event that she was struck with a case of hysterical blindness. Figgins seemed very pleased with the sudden increase in attention. And more than willing to reciprocate.

Thank God it wasn't me. And thank God Carina regularly boasted that she was better than me at the fine art of flirting and seduction. It wasn't often I had a chance to use her words against her like that.

As tempting as it was to draw out her suffering, I did have a certain amount of professional pride. Which could be considered as amusing since I wasn't officially a spy. But I digress. Carina certainly appreciated my efficiency, judging by the 'Thank you' she mouthed in my direction. I entertained the notion of using the VI I had just uploaded to see if it could capture that on any of the vid-cams and send the footage to my omni-tool. **(6)**

Figgins took us to the next level, which consisted of an art gallery that was apparently comprised of busts and statues from ancient cultures. If so, Amad had been robbed. 36% of the artwork I identified as artificially aged because the colour was either too vibrant or too dull, 12 percent based on the impossible symmetry of the statues and a couple simply because the proportions were inconsistent with the art style they were supposedly made in. While a full analysis with precisely calibrated equipment would be required to verify my assessment, I was confident that 48.2% of what I saw could only be considered art in the modern—and possibly pornographic—sense of the word.

Not being much of an art expert, Figgins spent several minutes talking and staring and admiring and drooling. Which would have been perfect, considering he was giving the VI more time to work. The only downside was that his hands were capable of moving independently of his mouth. His wandering, groping hands. I suffered through enough unwanted attention and advances during the latter part of what could laughingly be called my childhood and even more during my time with Cerberus. This? This I did not need.

But he eventually led us out of the gallery. More importantly, Carina and I managed to manoeuvre his hands so they were clutching our hips. It's amazing what you can do with fine motor control, calculated muscle movements and a healthy dose of revulsion.

We were just thanking our lucky stars when Figgins brought us to the conference room he mentioned. Mr. Amad was sitting at the head of a large table, waiting for us. Along with four burly guards. Carina looked down on Figgins—literally, as there was something of a height disparity between them. "Okay, just to be clear: when I said I just had to bring my sister, this was _not _what I had in mind."

"No, I don't suppose it was," Amad said, getting to his feet. "To be honest, under normal circumstances, we wouldn't be having this little chat. I would be mingling with my guests and you two would be enjoying yourselves with Peyman here."

Personally, 'enjoying' wouldn't be the word I would have chosen. Neither would Carina.

"But when I receive a warning that an upcoming deal might be sabotaged, I get a little worried," Amad continued, walking around the conference table. "When the man I hired actually _finds _a saboteur, then conveniently bumps into a beautiful woman who latches on to him _before _he starts dropping credits like they're going out of style—"

"And loses consciousness before ending the night with wild monkey sex," Figgins added. "That's only happened twice before, and both times were very suspicious."

Amad paused before shaking his head, as if to clear the images from his brain. If so, I wished him luck. He'd need it. "And to top it all off, you show up at tonight's party," he continued, walking up and stopping in front of us, "somehow bringing a guest and having tickets even though I approved every one on the original list. That, to be frank, concerns me."

Understandable, I suppose. "This is entirely your fault," I told Carina, stalling for time. Besides, it was true.

"My fault?!" she exclaimed.

"If you had only stuck to the plan, we wouldn't be in this mess," I said firmly. "This happens every time we work together."

"Does not."

I turned on Carina. "Does too. And you know why?"

"Enlighten me." Carina's voice was dripping with sarcasm, but her eyes were twinkling. She knew what I was up to.

"Because of your pathological need to make things up as you go along."

"It's called having fun. Something you desperately need more of."

"I have plenty of fun."

"Right. I've seen your definition of fun and, trust me, that's not fun."

"What's wrong with—"

Amad cleared his throat, interrupting our efforts to stall for time. "Much as I'd love to hear you two… women… continue," he said, his tone clearly belying his words, "I'm afraid I don't have the time. This deal could have fallen apart thanks to you two, and I really have to find out who you're working for and what you know."

"How were you planning on doing that?" I asked.

"Well, I suppose I could just ask you," Amad said. "But, frankly, I wouldn't believe anything you volunteered. I much prefer the second option."

"Which is?" Carina asked.

"Let's call it 'enhanced interrogation,' shall we?"

In other words: torture. Wonderful. Amad walked back to his chair, sat down and snapped his fingers. The guards began walking towards us, one going so far as to crack his knuckles. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Figgins step aside. Clearly, he'd done this before.

Pity we couldn't stall any longer. But I suppose I would have to adapt. Carina turned towards me. "Vänster eller höger?" she asked me.

"Będę brać lewych chłopców," I replied. **(7)**

Now that we had decided on that, it was time to formulate my plan of attack. Time seemed to slow down to a halt as I made a final evaluation of the tactical situation: I had my omni-tool, ready to deliver either an electromagnetic pulse or another surprise that I had set up ten hours ago. I had the knives that I had borrowed from Carina. I had my biotics, which were extremely potent if I was honest with myself. I had my heavy pistol, but it would take approximately 16.2 seconds to assemble. Add another 1.5 seconds to slot in a thermal clip and round up to provide some wiggle room and that gave me a total of twenty seconds—assuming, of course, that a) I skipped the startup checks and b) my assailants were accommodating enough to wait.

The two hostiles that had been assigned to me were wearing standard hardsuits, which meant a basic shield package and no extra armour plating. They were not wearing any helmets, probably because Amad didn't want to put a damper on the party atmosphere. Each was only carrying an M-5 Phalanx heavy pistol, again because anything else would alarm his guests.

One of 'my' guards was 26.5 centimetres ahead of his partner, either by an unspoken arrangement or some misplaced eagerness to get his grubby paws on me. The other guard was clearly favouring his right leg, ever so slightly.

Having made these observations, I quickly ran through the various tactical scenarios, identified the one with the greatest likelihood of success, determined from the glint in her eye that Carina had done the same and made my move.

Raising my arm, I launched an EMP at the guards on the left. Their shields collapsed with a burst of sparks. While they were disoriented, I took one step forward and to my left. To their credit, it only took them five seconds to recover and determine I had moved—I would have given them at least ten.

The lead guard swivelled on the spot and stepped towards me, not realizing that he'd just stepped between me and his partner, nor the fact that I had manoeuvred him into doing so in the first place. The other guard tried to move to a better firing position, only to stumble as he put weight on his injured leg. He would probably recover, but until that happened, the odds had just been reduced to one-on-one.

Back to the lead guard. He was probably expecting me to freeze on the spot. Maybe turn tail and run for my life. Both of which were understandable, considering he was a large, imposing figure armed with a gun tasked with subduing a gorgeous woman in a skin-tight dress.

Therefore, I imagine he was a little surprised when I chose instead to attack. Slapping his pistol aside with my left hand, I whipped my right hand to hit his nose. Having delivered the blow at the right velocity and the right angle, I was rewarded with the sound—and feeling—of his nasal bones snapping. Swinging forward, I struck his nose with the heel of my left hand, driving his now-loosened nasal bones up into his brain for an instant kill. I neatly grabbed his Phalanx from his hands before he collapsed and fired three shots, automatically compensating for the intense recoil. The other guard dropped like a rock, a neat jagged hole marking where my bullets entered his skull.

Elapsed time: 16 seconds.

Unfortunately, while I was dispatching the guards, Amad and Figgins were escaping through a previously hidden door. Stifling a curse, I turned my attention to the other half of the room in time to see one of Carina's guards slump against the wall and fall to the floor, a knife handle sticking out of his left eye. The other guard was currently being caught in a chokehold, struggling for dear life. His efforts intensified when he saw another knife in Carina's hand. Said knife plunged into his carotid artery, carved around his neck and through the other carotid artery. I dodged just in time to avoid the inevitable spray of blood. "Hey!"

"What?" Carina wanted to know, cleaning the knife with a cloth she pulled from... somewhere. "Someone had to get all stabby-stabby and you weren't going for it. Kinda surprising, considering the last time we worked together."

"I'm trying something new," I replied. "And I beat you. 21 seconds, Carina? You're slipping."

"Was not."

"You're right," I replied, bending down and searching my guards. "It was actually 21.3 seconds. I felt sorry for you."

"Bite me."

"In your dreams."

I paused in the midst of my rummaging. Damn it. _Why _did I say that?

"Oh in my dreams, you'd do _so _much more than that."

I knew she'd respond that way. I just knew it. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. "As much as I'd like to dissuade you from your fantasies, the VI—" I paused to check my omni-tool, "—is not quite done." Naturally.

With a tug, I pulled a belt from one of the guards and tied it around my waist. It didn't exactly match my dress, but it did have the needed compartments to carry the spare thermal clips I was hastily picking up. **(8)** I left the guns alone, though. Carrying and firing two guns, one in each hand, only works in the vids. Carina had the same idea, I saw.

"So now what?"

That was when the door—the one we originally entered—hissed upon.

By the time the squad of guards charged into the room, Carina and I had already knocked over the conference table and taken shelter behind it. She took out their shields with another EMP. We raised our pistols—

—and ducked before the resulting gunfire turned our faces into Swiss cheese. "Well, this went about as well as I expected," Carina said, raising her voice above the din.

"I can believe that, coming from you," I replied. "Thoughts?"

"Second guard from the right."

"As opposed to the other four guards packing Predator pistols? Or the leader carrying another Phalanx?"

"No, I mean the other thing he's carrying."

Either Carina was referring to the size of a certain part of his anatomy—which Carina couldn't possibly see unless she had some very advanced retinal implants—or... ah. "We need a distraction."

"I can do it."

"You're sure?"

"I can do it," I repeated. "The question is: can you hit it?"

"Am I a natural redhead?"

"That would require a mutation in the MC1R protein as a result of inheriting two copies of a recessive gene in chromosome 16—"

"That was a yes, not a request for a science lecture," Carina interrupted, popping up to fire off a shot. The guard—second from the left—staggered.

"Fine," I sighed, finishing the guard off with a shot from _my _pistol.

"Hey! Pick your own targets."

"Finish the job, then. Ready?"

"I was born ready."

In response, I lifted my arm, aimed it at the ceiling and fired. A stream of plasma shot out like a breath of flame from a dragon, scorching the ceiling... and setting off the sprinklers. **(9)** There was a brief chorus of babble from the guards, who were distracted by the artificial precipitation. Carina leaned out from behind the cover of the table, squeezed off a single shot from her pistol...

...and set off the belt of grenades that the second guard from the left was carrying.

Once again, my genetically enhanced senses were subjected to a round of auditory agony. This time, however, I managed to recover more quickly. Perhaps hiding behind the table helped to deflect the sound. Or the padding on the walls managed to absorb some of the sonic energy. Whatever the reason, I was quite grateful.

Carina, however, didn't know that. _"Can you hear me,"_ she signed.

"Yes," I replied, standing up.

"Neat trick," Carina approved.

"I thought so," I said. "Picked it up during my deep cover assignment." Because I needed something to remind me of Shepard and the alternative was finding obscure songs on the extranet to imbed into the computer's public address system.

Speaking of computers... I checked my omni-tool. Double-checked. Tried a couple programs. "Hmm."

"'Hmm'?" Carina echoed. "What does that mean?"

"Do you want the good news or the bad news?"

"You know me," Carina said.

True. "The good news is that the VI successfully found the accounts that Volkoff Industries would use to buy the Hydra missile launchers."

"And the bad news?"

"The password isn't on the yacht's mainframe. It's on Amad's omni-tool."

"And Amad is long gone," Carina groaned. "No doubt running for his life."

"Which means we have to intercept him."

"How?" Carina frowned. "Planning on using the VI we embedded in the computer?"

I gave her a sly smile. "That… and the tracker I slipped into his pocket when he was confronting us."

"That could work," Carina allowed.

"Of course it will work," I scoffed. "All we have to do is run through the halls of a yacht that we've never been in before, eliminate any guards who get in our way and apprehend Amad. In high heels."

Carina laughed. "I think I like this new Sarah."

"Me too," I admitted. "Now let's get that bastard."

"And his little slime ball too." **(10)**

* * *

_(1): He certainly did. _

_(2): Dr. Erzsebet Vidmar, who killed over thirty asari for their telomerase in a poorly thought-out and scientifically implausible scheme to extend her own lifespan._

_(3): Mostly because the eezo mining ventures alone could not support Amad's extravagant lifestyle and he was careless enough to let himself get caught having meetings with known representatives of minor terrorist organizations. _

_(4): That's generally true, though Miranda's situation was a unique case._

_(5): Miranda's assessment of Carina was entirely correct, based on the psychological profile I obtained, though I suspect she was also talking about herself. _

_(6): Something she would not have done a year ago. Another sign of Shepard's influence. _

_(7): I believe Carina was asking whether Miranda wanted to deal with the guards on the left or the right in the human language of Swedish, to which Miranda replied left in Polish. My apologies for any inaccuracies in the translation._

_(8): Another habit Miranda picked up from Shepard. _

_(9): Human mythology had a number of interpretations of this mythical creature. The version Miranda was referring to was a giant winged reptile covered in scales and capable of breathing fire._

_(10): A reference to the human children's novel 'The Wizard of Oz,' published by L. Frank Baum in 1900._


	4. Miranda Versus the Cardinal Rule

**Chapter 4: Miranda Versus the Cardinal Rule**

I make plans. It's what I do.

I make plans because no one else will. Because they are too stupid. Or short-sighted. Or naïve. Too willing to mistake ignorance for surety, to dismiss unknown variables as inconsequential. To cling to blind faith in some intangible providence instead taking even the most elementary precautions.

I make plans to establish some iota of control. Because when your entire world, when everything you know, is at the mercy and whim of someone else, you need something to cling to. Something to keep you from succumbing to despair. **(1)**

I make plans to turn what might be into what _will _be. Because if you are observant enough, you can see the connections, calculate the likelihood of a given action and extrapolate the possible consequences. You can predict, manipulate or simply take advantage of how others will behave. Like a game of chess: determining how to move your pawns to provoke the desired response, moving towards the final and inevitable checkmate.

I make plans because, for all my talents, all my education and experience, sometimes things don't always go my way. Sometimes I'm wrong. Sometimes I fail. And when that happens, my plans help me compensate. My plans help me switch to other contingencies should the situation require it, either because they were specifically crafted with that development in mind or because there was sufficient overlap that I could repurpose it to suit my needs and turn a failure into a nothing more than a setback, thereby achieving a victory after all.

And maybe, just maybe, I make plans because I have a nonexistent social life. But I digress.

The mission as we had originally envisioned was complete: we had the Volkoff Industries accounts. But without the password or access codes, there was still a chance that the funds contained in those accounts could be used. Which meant the mission wasn't actually finished. We had to find Amad.

Fortunately, I had made a slight upgrade to the VI Carina gave me, something that would let me do more than simply search the mainframe of Anthony Amad's yacht. It let us fool the _yacht _VI into thinking we were authorized users, thereby expanding the options available to us.

Finding a computer, I began searching for Amad and his subordinate Figgins. "All right," I said, pulling up a three-dimensional wireframe schematic of the yacht. "We are here—"

"You sound like Avina," Carina murmured. "Or any other VI trying to help you find something."

I rolled my eyes. "—near the aft section of the main deck. And thanks to the tracker I placed on Amad, he is… here. In what appears to be his personal suite."

Carina peered at the holo-display. "Looks like he did a lot of renovation to merge the owner's suite on the main deck and the captain's cabin on the upper deck."

"Gives him a lot of living space," I agreed. "Now if I can tap into the ship's security feeds, I should be able to identify the locations of all the guards... there we go."

The holo-display, which had previously been showing two dots representing me and Carina and another two dots for Amad and (presumably) Figgins, suddenly began filling up with dots. Most of which were headed our way.

"Oh goody," Carina smiled. "The men who were entertaining us earlier have friends."

I looked at the four men in question, all now very much dead. "I hope you weren't planning on entertaining all of them. We can either shoot our way through all of them, or we can find an expeditious route to Amad and Figgins at the expense of skipping a few guards."

"We can't have both?"

Well, if Shepard were here, we would. Much to my chagrin and—eventual—resignation. **(2)** "No," I decided, just to be contrary.

"But I always do my best thinking when I'm getting shot at."

"Not that I've seen."

"Hey!"

"We have guards incoming," I warned, pointing at the map. I quickly set up a feed from the computer to my omni-tool so I could keep track of everyone while we were moving. "Perhaps we should prepare ourselves."

"Have a plan?"

"To borrow an over-used cliché, the best defence is a good offense."

"Woohoo!"

* * *

There were three guards, in fact, approaching the conference room. I don't think they expected us to launch an attack just as they were about to activate the door controls. They didn't expect to lose their shields, courtesy of Carina's EMP. And they certainly didn't expect to be set on fire from my omni-tool. It was laughably easy to finish them off while they were distracted. The only challenge was the last guard.

"What the hell is he doing?"

"Getting away… I think."

Actually, he was rolling himself down the corridor in an attempt to snuff out the flames, but getting away from the women who'd disabled his shields and set him on fire was probably a close second. It didn't work, but we managed to put him out of his misery.

As Carina and I raced down the corridor, I consulted my omni-tool and made the delightful discovery that there were another four guards approaching. Looking ahead, I found the most ideal location and quickly motioned for Carina to pick up the pace. Thanks to our efforts, we were able to find shelter and have our omni-tools and pistols aimed by the time the quartet of hostiles showed up. Once again, we disabled their shields, distracted them with plasma and picked them off one by one.

"Oh my god, I love this," Carina giggled.

She would.

Then we resumed our mad dash to reach Amad's chosen sanctuary. We passed several doors along the way. If Shepard were here, he'd investigate every single one for some kind of loot, whether they be credits, schematics for upgrades, weapons or even spare thermal clips.

"What are you doing?" Carina frowned after I opened the third door.

Testing to see whether I had a heretofore-undiscovered penchant for kleptomania to pair with my dormant streak of pyromania, I was tempted to say. **(3)** Though if that were true, I'd be quickly disappointed: there was nothing worth stealing or liberating.

"Two things," I replied. "First, I'm double-checking these rooms to make sure we don't have any surprises waiting to sneak up on us."

"Which the sensor feeds we tapped into should have found, but okay," Carina conceded. "And second?"

"Locking the doors so any pursuers will waste time unlocking and clearing the rooms."

"That could work," Carina agreed. "Though it looks like the next batch of guards are ahead of us, not behind us."

She was right. Five contacts, this time. I was just about to leave when I noticed something. "Well, what have we here?" I mused aloud.

Carina's eyes brightened.

We quickly arrived at a plan without wasting time proposing useless schemes or indulging in unnecessary banter—on Carina's part, of course—which indicated just how seriously we were taking this situation. Carina and I hid in the room and waited for the guards, who arrived in one minute, forty-two seconds. Just as they were about to pass the room we were hiding in, Carina opened the door. Understandably, the guards froze at this unexpected event and backed up to peer inside the room. The way they clustered made it easy for the next EMP and plasma attack to hit all five of them. Then Carina tossed the grenade I'd found out into the hallway. "Close it, close, it, close it!" she urged.

"I'm closing it," I told her. Honestly, I didn't know why she was so worried. Any shrapnel or damage from the grenade wasn't going to curve around the corner. Besides, she was the one who was so excited about finding the damn thing.

When we opened it again, all five of them were dead. And… spread out along the floor and walls and ceiling. Carina and I gingerly waded through the mess until we reached a clean section of floor again. Then I checked my omni-tool again. Most of the guards were either on the main deck and heading our way, ascending to the main deck or descending to the main deck.

As entertaining as it might have been to encounter hostile forces on a semi-regular basis, I had no desire to get involved in any more fighting than was strictly necessary. Furthermore, I had established that Shepard's questionable influence on me did not extend to a rampant desire for ill-gotten goods. "This way," I told Carina. "Around the corner and halfway down the corridor is a flight of stairs that can take us to the upper deck. From there, we can make our way to the suite while encountering a minimum number of guards."

"Not to mention a minimal amount of fun," Carina drawled. "I suppose I'll have to get my jollies some other way."

"Poor baby," I mocked as I led the way. To my surprise, I had an unbelievably good string of luck. We encountered no guards whatsoever on the way to the stairs. Or on our way up to the upper deck. And we met exactly zero guards on our way to Amad's suite.

It was once we arrived at the suite that our unexpected serendipity ran out. First, the door was sealed with an encryption system that was more robust than usual. More of a challenge than a serious problem, or so I thought.

"Um… Sarah?"

"What now?"

"We have three guards approaching our location, with another two trailing them. ETA of maybe twenty seconds for the first three and… forty-five seconds for the rest."

"Crap," I cursed.

"Don't worry," Carina reassured me. "I have a plan."

Against my better judgment, I had to turn my attention away from my hacking efforts to level an incredulous stare at her. "You?"

"Yep," she nodded. "I'll watch your back and shoot down anyone who tries to stop you."

Ah. Another exchange of ridiculous schemes. Something to be said for tradition, I suppose. "No, that's a terrible idea. You don't have enough firepower or cover to make any kind of effective stand."

"And you have a better idea?"

"Run towards them screaming in terror that there's a fire, lead them away, then double back later."

"I'm pretty sure there are safety procedures in place to deal with that," Carina said. "For some odd reason, fires and ships don't mix. Which means that amazing idea wouldn't fly, either. Now what's your real plan?"

I told her.

"Fine," she sighed. "You've got ten seconds."

While Carina made herself scarce, I activated my omni-tool, activated a nifty little program I'd been saving for a rainy day and set it loose on that pesky door. Meanwhile, I slipped off my right shoe, snapped the heel off with one hand while mussing my 'hair' with the other. Palming one of my knives in my broken shoe—which I thankfully did not buy because that would have been such a waste of credits—I took a step forward, then another and another, my trajectory growing increasingly indirect until I walked right into the door. Stumbling back, I repeated my movements. "Hello?" I called out, deliberately slurring my voice. "Hello? Anyone there? Hello? Anyone there? Hello? Hello?"

"Can we help you, miss?"

Whirling around, I forced myself to stumble into the wall. "Oh my God, I'm, like, so sorry. Maybe the four of you… uh, five," I amended, squinting at the guards and pretending to fail at doing a headcount. "Six? I dunno, I'm so wasted. I'm _so wasted_! Can you help me? I, uh, I'm trying to find the guy? You know, the guy. Said mixing ryncol with bourbon was a really bad idea. He was a guy… like you… really tall… like you… like a guy…"

Sure enough, they immediately dismissed me as a drunk bimbo. They were so overconfident, in fact, that they didn't even bother activating their kinetic barriers before moving in to apprehend me. I let them get close before making my move.

The first guard—who I mentally designated as Target One—was behind me, 13 centimetres from my left elbow. The other two were in front of me and on my right; Target Two was 58 centimetres away and Target Three 168 centimetres. I knocked the latter off his feet with a well-aimed Warp. **(4)** Target Two's eyes widened before he lunged towards me. Quickly sidestepping, I bent, grabbed, twisted and pulled him over my shoulder. While One managed to dodge Two in time, the resulting delay allowed me to turn my attention back to Three. He had recovered from my biotic attack with admirable speed. Sadly for him, he was unable to respond to my broken shoe, which I threw in his face. That gave me time to swivel around and plunge my knife in the centre of One's left carotid artery. Reversing my path, I shoved One in Two's path. Following my momentum, I made a full 360-degree turn with my arm extended and my blade firmly gripped in my hand, slashing Three's throat in an unconscious imitation of Carina's earlier attack. While Three rapidly exsanguinated out, I hurled the knife into Two's right eye. Needless to say, I didn't miss.

Targets Four and Five chose that opportunity to arrive. They took one look at me, glanced at the dead and bloody bodies of their compatriots, activated their kinetic barriers and drew their pistols. "Freeze!" Five yelled.

"Honestly: couldn't you think of something more original?"

They stiffened. Five kept his weapon trained on me while Four turned around. Or tried to—he had only made it halfway around before Carina drained his kinetic barriers, as well as those of his partner. I dropped to the ground, just in time to avoid Five's instinctive shot, before setting them both on fire with a well-aimed torrent of plasma from my omni-tool. There was a fair amount of screaming and twitching on their part—and a little shooting on our part—before they finally stopped moving.

And then the door opened. Right on cue. Well, not really, since I hadn't arranged it that way. Though if I had, I suppose the timing would have been adequate.

"Shall we?" I asked, tilting my head towards the door as I reloaded my pistol.

Carina did the same. "Yes. Let's."

* * *

In some ways, Amad's luxury suite was rather typical. White marble tiles, white walls, white tabletops. Leather furniture. Large bed covered in silk sheets that probably had a high thread count. The standard, typical arrangement you'd expect.

But there were a few distinct features that made it unique. The dark red-brown colour of the furniture. The red-and-gold Persian carpets. The mosaic of brightly-coloured tiles covering the walls. The giant gold—not real gold, of course. I could see the flecks of paint that had chipped off—statue of Tony Amad.

Speaking of which, Amad was sitting in the room with his good friend Figgins. Both of them looked somewhat annoyed. Probably because they had been chased to this luxurious hidey-hole instead of sitting down and watching while a bevy of beautiful women entertained them. And they were sipping what looked like water—though it could be some colourless alcoholic beverage such as vodka—instead of downing glasses of expensive champagne or wine. I pointed my pistol at Amad. Carina covered Figgins.

"The two of you are starting to annoy me," Amad announced.

"Only starting?" Carina asked innocently.

"Told you were slipping," I murmured. To Amad, I said: "Try spending a full hour with her. You'll be ready to throttle her by then."

"Or you'll have your clothes off."

I opened my mouth to rebut Carina's statement, paused, considered it, and had to concede that she did have a point. She did have a way of convincing men—and women—to strip down to their underwear, if not nude. Handcuffs might be involved. Actual sex… didn't happen as often as you'd think. Carina liked to say that any idiot could spread her legs for the target. A true expert could keep her clothes on and her legs together, but still make the target think he—or she—had the time of his/her life.

"ENOUGH!" Amad snapped. "This is your last chance to tell me who hired you."

"Today?" Carina asked.

"Yes, of course today."

"Today today?" I chimed in.

"Yes."

"Let's see…" I said slowly. "Today. Does today work for you?"

Carina shook her head. "No. No, it doesn't. How 'bout tomorrow."

"No, I have plans. Weekend, maybe?"

"That new club's opening up. You know the one? With the lights? Next to the place?"

"Oh, yeah, yeah. Heard great things about it. Definitely can't miss it. Next week, then?"

"At the earliest. Even then, it might not work."

Figgins definitely looked annoyed. Amad was this close to bursting a blood vessel, judging by the way he was twitching. And the vein in his forehead was definitely throbbing. "Well then," he hissed. "I guess that settles things." He didn't so much as tap his omni-tool as he stabbed it with his index finger.

"Drop your weapons. You have twenty seconds to comply."

Carina and I looked around for the voice. It was deep, bass. Definitely synthetic. But I couldn't see a mech anywhere. Neither could Carina, judging by the frown on her face. It could have been the VI or some synthesized voice over the public address system, but somehow it didn't sound like that. It sounded a lot closer.

"You now have fifteen seconds to comply."

Definitely closer. The voice was in this room. Was it from a cloaked mech? That wasn't unheard of. I had encountered geth hunter platforms before, so I was familiar with the concept of cloaked synthetic units.

"You now have five seconds to comply… four… three… two… one… I am now authorized to use lethal force." **(5)**

Then the gold statue cracked.

If this was a vid, the crack would spread, splitting and forking and spreading until the entire façade was covered in a spider web of cracks. There would then be a dramatic pause before the entire statue shattered with a deafening roar, pieces falling in slow motion to the ground. Or so Shepard told me: he kept meaning to rope me into a 'movie date,' whatever that was. I never had the chance to take him up on his peculiar offer. Too many things to do at the time. Now I wish I had.

But I digress. Since this was reality, the statue cracked into pieces and fell away. As Carina and I watched, a YMIR mech unfolded itself from its dormant crouching position.

Yes. A Model 34-A YMIR-class heavy mech. Because this mission hadn't been hazardous enough before.

By this point, I had faced so many mechs and geth that the protocols for combating them had long-since been generated, tested, refined and stored in my memory. So I automatically ducked down behind a couch, launched an EMP from my omni-tool and opened fire with my pistol.

Carina, on the other hand, was a little slower to respond. I suppose that, in the murky and secretive world of intelligence, dealing with your standard run-of-the-mill mech was one thing. Fighting giant heavy mechs was something else altogether. To her credit, though, she had found shelter beside me and sent her own EMP flying before the YMIR opened fire.

"Any thoughts?" Carina called out as the stream of bullets roared over our heads.

"Stagger our EMP attacks. Since we don't have any rapid-fire weapons, we'll have to settle for our shields. Once the YMIR's shields are down, concentrate on its head. The armour plating there is just as thick, but the internal circuitry is much more vulnerable. You should be aware that it will occasionally halt firing its mass accelerator cannons to let loose a rocket."

"Wow," was all Carina could say. "Either you've had way too much time on your hands or you've dealt with these things before."

"Both," I confirmed. "Which brings me to the most important point: like other mechs, it has no sense of self-preservation. It will try to advance on our position."

"Yeah, I can see that," Carina said, dread filling her voice. The loud footsteps told us that it was definitely stomping towards us. "And we are nowhere close to killing it."

Somehow, I spared a moment to close my eyes and pull up a mental map of the suite from my brief observations. "Then we'll have to keep moving. Our best bet is the chair 5.3 metres to our left with a marble pillar right next to it. We'll have plenty of time to let off several shots. From there, there are several options to retreat."

"Sounds good," Carina shrugged. "I'll get there first and cover you." Before I could say anything, the air around her seemed to flare with light.

Then she vanished. Apparently she had a tactical cloaking system. Perhaps she somehow had it built into her dress. Or maybe she had an implant or series of implants like Shepard. I managed to drain a little more of the YMIR's shields before I had to duck for cover. As powerful as my biotics were, they wouldn't last long against the sheer onslaught that the mech could deliver.

A trio of shots rang out. M-5 Phalanx, judging by the sound. 5.3 metres to my left, judging by the echo. The logical conclusion would be that Carina had made it to the shelter, just as we'd planned.

I don't think either of us had planned for the YMIR to halt, turn around and stomp towards her.

Later on, I realized that this behavior was similar to the other times Shepard and his squad encountered a YMIR mech. If he had cause to activate his cloak, the YMIR would reorient on someone else. When he decloaked, the YMIR invariably switched back to him. We appeared to see something similar here. Perhaps it interpreted Carina's decloaking as the arrival of a new threat. If so, perhaps its threat priority protocols determined that it should disengage from its current target and attack the 'new' one. Either that or, as Shepard would say, the universe had it out for him.

Whatever the reason, this presented an opportunity. "Carina," I said, speaking into my comm, "activate your cloak as soon as you can. If I'm right, the YMIR will keep moving back and forth between us. We can use that behavior to take it down."

"_You sure that will work?" _Carina asked skeptically.

"I have a few prior encounters that suggest it would be a viable tactic," I replied.

"_First, a simple 'yes' would've sufficed," _Carina replied. _"Second, you must have been having a lot of interesting adventures during that deep cover job of yours."_

"You have no idea," I murmured. "Ready?"

"_Ready."_

My plan did, in fact, work out. Though if I had any doubts, I wouldn't have mentioned it out loud. Still, I would have understood any skepticism. No one who hadn't actually witnessed this encounter or had any similar firsthand experience would have believed that two women could singlehandedly take down a YMIR by making it stomp back and forth between us and having whichever woman who wasn't under attack take advantage of the opportunity to score a few free hits.

But that is exactly what happened. Slowly, bullet by bullet, we whittled down its shields. Then we focused our fire on damaging and dislodging the armour plating around its head. I had just Warped the plating off when I felt two shots ricochet off my own shields.

Turning around, I saw Amad and Figgins firing at me with heavy pistols—M-6 Carnifexes, to be exact. Apparently, having seen the two of us hold our own and slowly gain an inexorable advantage over a foe that outweighed and outgunned us, they felt the need to intervene. Naturally, the YMIR was thundering towards me at that point.

Carina saw the predicament I was in. _"Hang on, Sarah."_

Yes. Hang on. Easy to say when you're not staring down an unstoppable force that could tear through your shields or barriers in the blink of an eye. Easy to do when you're not facing an insurmountable foe that could literally cut you to pieces with the sheer velocity of its overwhelming firepower. As the YMIR approached, I mentally reviewed the layout of the suite and began plotting various courses that would buy me as much time as possible. I heard it get closer… and closer…

…and closer…

…before it came to a grinding halt. I heard a hiss of hydraulics.

Then the YMIR opened fire.

But not at me. Daring to peer up, I saw the YMIR open fire on Amad and Figgins, who hastily took cover behind a large desk. The heavy mech proceeded to carve a series of grooves and dents into the finish, causing so much damage that no amount of restoration could possibly repair the damage. Turning around, I saw Carina beaming. "Check it out," she grinned. "I got that mech wrapped around my little finger!"

As much as I was loathe to admit it, she was right. With the YMIR's targeting protocols subverted, it was more than capable of keeping Amad and Figgins pinned down while Carina and I scored shot after free shot. I threw in the occasional EMP while Carina re-hacked the heavy mech whenever it rebooted its IFF protocols. **(6) **

After a minute and thirty-five seconds, I ran a quick scan with my omni-tool. According to the results, it was seriously damaged. It wouldn't take much to destroy it once and for all. The question was _how_: a single shot in the right place would cause a critical overload in its system, resulting in an explosion comparable to that of a tactical nuclear weapon or an M-920 Cain round going off. Despite the size of Amad's suite, it was still a fairly enclosed space.

"Amad!" I called out. "Call off the mech or I'll shoot it! In its current state, I estimate a 94% chance that it will explode and take us all out!"

"Let her shoot it!" Carina encouraged her. "I've always wanted to go out with a bang!"

For a moment, I thought Amad would take Carina up on her suggestion. Then the YMIR slumped down. If my enhanced hearing didn't pick up the sounds of an eezo core powering down, I would have thought it had received that one final impact that sent it over the edge. To my relief, the YMIR crouched down in its power-down mode. Amad and Figgins slowly stood up, pistols placed on the table and hands in the air.

To summarize: Volkoff Industries accounts seized. Passwords to said accounts acquired. And to make things even better, two bonafide Volkoff operatives captured alive and ready for interrogation. Could this get any better?

I turned around to look my partner. Which in this case happened to be Carina.

Oh. Right.

* * *

If this had been a well-planned operation, there would be an Alliance Intelligence grab-team standing by to take Amad and Figgins into custody before any other parties got involved. Unfortunately, any plan had been jettisoned out the proverbial airlock a long time ago.

Thankfully, Carina knew someone in C-Sec who was quite amenable to holding them in a cell, off the record, until Alliance Intelligence could scramble a grab-team. It seems that when you're an asari in your mid-400s, with a mother who is much respected amongst Thessia's matriarchs, you don't want evidence of a liaison with an 18-year old human hitting the extranet.

I wasn't quite sure how Carina got a hold of this evidence. She certainly didn't look 19. But I suppose all's well that ends well.

After handing our captives off, Carina left the yacht. With all the drinking and carousing and attractive individuals of both genders and various species. Very suspicious, I thought. I said as much.

"Oh, you know, I got bored," Carina tried. "After running and gunning, whining about stock options over a glass of bubbly just isn't the same."

Very true, but I had my doubts that that was the actual story. "Carina…"

"Fine," Carina huffed. "Since you insist."

That was easy.

"Let's say that, hypothetically, I know this woman."

"Only one?" I snarked.

"This woman claimed to be a top-secret, hush-hush agent with Alliance Intelligence," Carina continued, ignoring my sarcasm. "So cloak-and-dagger that her name wouldn't pop up on any official records. And almost none of the unofficial ones."

I started feeling a sinking feeling in my stomach.

"So, hypothetically, I may have done a little digging. What did I find? Glad you asked. I found out, hypothetically, that this so-called deep cover story was a load of bull. She wasn't deep-cover at all. She was, in fact, working for the enemy. Which meant that I was obligated to turn her in."

I upgraded the sinking feeling to plummeting. "And when did you find out about this hypothetical woman?" I managed.

"Oh, years ago."

Years. We'd had a couple encounters within that time frame. "You knew about this hypothetical woman for years? And yet you never turned her in?"

"Yes and no, in that order."

"Why?"

"I liked her."

I blinked. "Come again?"

"I liked her. Don't ask me why. She was so uptight, I could swear she had a rod jammed up her ass—and not in a good way. Could've subbed in for a VI, she was so goddamned literal. Totally clueless about how real human beings behaved. And absolutely no sense of humour whatsoever. Total snorefest."

"And yet you liked her."

"I'm weird that way," Carina shrugged. "And kinda freaky. Don't get me started."

Fine. I would not.

"But yes, despite all her many character defects, I liked her. So I didn't turn her in."

To be honest, I was a little preoccupied. It's not like I hadn't anticipated that someone might see through this fictitious tale I had concocted. That was why I had taken pains to limit my encounters with Carina or anyone else that might be able to see between the lies. The fact Carina had figured it out wasn't a surprise. The fact that she had figured it out and chose _not _to divulge this to anyone was.

Of course, she could be lying. She was an intelligence agent. Lying was what she did. But I didn't think she was lying this time. I'm usually a pretty good judge of character, and what I picked up told me she was telling the truth.

That same ability to analyze, what other people would attribute as an instinct or 'gut feeling,' also told me there was something more. "If you ever saw this woman again, what would you do? Hypothetically."

"Three things. First: it turns out that the phrase 'Alliance Intelligence' really _isn't_ an oxymoron. Someone else figured it out who told someone who told someone who... well, you get the idea. Word's out. Your cover's blown. Technically, I should turn you in myself. That kind of coup would score me major brownie points with the brass." **(7)**

"You need to score some more brownie points?" was the first question that came to mind.

"Nah," Carina scoffed. "Well, maybe. I might be in a little hot water. Bringing you in would definitely help. But I did go above and beyond by completing my assignment _and _netting two sources of information—if not potential assets. That should be enough to get me back in my bosses' good books."

"I see we've dropped the 'hypothetical' aspect?" I noticed.

"Think it's run its course."

"Agreed. You mentioned three things."

"Right. Second: you've changed so much I almost didn't recognize you. I mean, you've loosened up. You tell jokes. And did I mention you've _loosened up_?"

"Have I really changed that much?" I protested.

"You were so stiff and rigid," Carina replied. "_Any _change would speak volumes. And that's a good thing. As fun as it was to wind you up before, dealing with this new you is better."

I had to admit that, at times, I felt better. Of course, there were now times where I felt worse.

"Of course, that all makes sense when you consider the third thing."

She said it so casually. Too casually, in my opinion. "And that would be..." I prompted.

"You broke the cardinal rule."

...

Oh. Right. She...

...

...right. The cardinal rule: never. fall. in. love. Because that was so unbelievably dangerous. To finish the mission, to stay safe, you could never fall in love. Never let someone in. Or get close. Never let yourself get so blinded by those pesky emotions that you miss the telltale signs that they're up to no good. That they're trying to use you or manipulate you in some way. To lead you away from their flaws or problems or agendas. Or even if those feelings are actually genuine and that person really is that kind and honest and funny and smart and good-looking—not that that list, which was certainly not a definitive list, was in any particular order, though the order did have a certain appeal and my _God_ when did my supposedly trained and disciplined mind collapse into such a disorganized babbling state of anarchy? Answer: right now. Well, 12.1 seconds ago... 12.3... 12.4 _stop it!_—love has a terrible way of occupying all your time and attention and distracting you from looking out for other dangers and other threats and drawing those connections and conclusions that could warn you of impending peril.

I used to follow that mantra. I had to, because the original cardinal rule, as parlayed to yours truly by Carina, was that _spies _don't fall in love and I, despite the fiction that I had just been informed was dispelled, was not a spy. Or an intelligence agent. Or intelligence officer. Or operative or whatever term you wished to utilize.

But then I met Shepard. And things got complicated. And then they got better. I got better. And happy. Genuinely, honestly, I-can-relax-without-chastising-myself-for-letting-my-guard-down happy. And then Shepard was gone. Which made things simpler. And more painful. And more complicated. All over again. I did not like this state at all.

It occurred to me that I should probably say something, considering Carina had been waiting for a response for 53.2 seconds. "Yes."

"You fell in love?"

"Yes." I couldn't really manage anything more than that. Thankfully, a simple answer was adequate for such a simple question.

"Are... are you o—no, you're not okay. How are you... yeah. How are you?"

"It's complicated."

"And we've broken the one-word mark."

And the one-syllable mark, but who was counting? Aside from me, that is.

"You know why the cardinal rule exists, don't you?"

"Do you want the short but imprecise response or the long and thorough answer?" I returned.

Carina winced. "Neither. Both go on forever. You really do love the sound of your own voice."

Look who's talking.

"Just one question."

"I admire your restraint."

"Is he worth it?"

"Yes."

"That was fast."

It was. It really was. I didn't even think about it. Or analyze it—either for subtext or what it could imply. It just... came out.

Wow... this was—wait a second. "Why did you say 'he'? It could have been a 'she'. Brave new world, you know."

"It really should be galaxy or universe, but that just doesn't have the same ring to it," Carina observed. "To answer your question: lucky guess." Then, to my complete and utter surprise, she... softened, would be the best way to describe it. "It's kind of a relief, actually."

"You wanted me to break the cardi—to fall in love?" I asked, avoiding the term. Possibly for the first time.

"Actually, I meant that I spend all my time suspicious of everyone and keeping them at arm's length. Everyone I know does the same. Occupational hazard. So it's nice to see that the rest of the galaxy isn't like that."

"And you don't think the rest of the galaxy is deluding themselves with this romanticized ignorance?" I asked.

"Oh, I know the rest of the galaxy is in blissful denial," Carina said. "But sometimes I can't help but think how nice it would be to take the blue pill."

I had no idea what she was talking about. **(8)**

"So... what now?" Carina wanted to know. "Like I said, the jig is up. The Alliance is onto you."

Once upon a time, I would have thought about that. It wouldn't have appeared that way, of course. But I was well versed in the art of generating, theorizing, extrapolating, eliminating and refining multiple plans and contingency plans in a fraction of the time required by other individuals.

Now? Now... all right. I still went through that very same protocol, but much faster than usual. Partly because I had already initiated it some time ago, partly because I had already identified the desired plan of action.

"This is what I want to do..." I began.

* * *

Carina set it up. She couldn't believe it at first. Kept asking me to repeat it. Then again. Then she—I swear I am not making this up—put the back of her hand against my forehead and took my temperature. Then she actually scanned me with her omni-tool—and the measurements had nothing to do with my body proportions!

But she finally set it up. Which brought me to this boring, generically decorated, generically furnished room. Bland, pastel pre-fab metal-that-didn't-look-like-metal walls. And floor. And ceiling. And furniture. With a computer and a token plant, the latter of which was starting to shrivel.

Admiral David Edward Anderson—formerly the first human Citadel Councillor, formerly Captain—arrived at 2200 on the dot. Very punctual. Probably a result of that military training. I approved. "Miss Lawson," he greeted me. "Or should that be 'Agent Walker'?"

"Miss Lawson is fine," I smiled politely, standing up and shaking his hand. "I take it you have been apprised of the situation?"

"You were groomed—and more—to be the heir of the Lawson business empire, escaped to a new life with the pro-human terrorist organization Cerberus on the provision that they help you provide a safe and normal life for your sister and genetic twin, rose through Cerberus's ranks until you led your own cell and gained personal access privileges with the Illusive Man himself, pretended to be an Alliance Intelligence deep cover operative, brought Commander Shepard back from the dead, served as his executive officer and second-in-command while investigating the plague of human colony abductions that sprung up over the last few years, defeated the Collectors and their Reaper masters and wish to make a deal rather than be arrested for a multitude of crimes."

He said all of that in one breath. Without making it sound like a frantic ramble. Swear to God.

Out of the myriad possibilities that could explain this concise summary, there was one that seemed the most plausible. "You talked to Shepard. Probably before Agent Miller contacted you."

Anderson nodded. "I also read some of his official logs. Which were... sparser than the norm."

Probably because Cerberus was tapping into, reading and analyzing every log entry, paragraph, sentence and word forward and backwards. Anderson knew that too, though he was gracious enough not to mention it.

"Speaking of Agent Miller, her message contained an interesting proposal," he said, changing the subject and getting down to the purpose of this meeting. "Amnesty for any crimes you may or may not have committed and forgiveness of your affiliations with a known terrorist organization. That's a tall order."

"I have a great deal of information on Cerberus," I told him.

"A group known for its compartmentalization," he countered. "Which brings into question how much you know."

"I am in a unique position to tell you everything about the cell I ran," I replied, "the cell that brought Shepard back. I can also tell you about all the missions I performed over the last 18 years. Furthermore, I can confirm or inform you about some things that all aspects of Cerberus have in common. Communication protocols, steganographic encryption—"

"We recently discovered that last part," Anderson interrupted.

I gave him a look. "Do you seriously think Cerberus doesn't have a backup method?"

"I'd be surprised if Cerberus didn't have several," he said gravely. **(9)** "Delighted, but surprised."

"More importantly, we have to think of the Reapers."

If he wasn't sober and serious before, he certainly was now. "I read Shepard's reports on what happened in the Bahak system."

"He did everything he could," I found myself saying. For some reason, I felt the need to defend him.

"Of course he did," Anderson said simply. As if he'd already decided that that was what happened. As if nothing else would have been possible.

Which was true. "Then you know the Reapers are coming. They've been delayed, but they're coming. I can help. But not if I'm constantly on the run and looking over my shoulder or—worse—rotting away or being tortured in some Alliance black site."

"The Alliance doesn't—" Anderson began automatically. He had the decency to stop and look slightly ashamed before I gave him a scathing glare. "I see your point," he conceded.

"So that's the deal. Limited time offer."

Now he looked amused. "Spoken like someone who's done this before."

If he only knew... "Spoken like someone who's spent her entire adult life evading authorities, particularly now that she knows that she's actively being hunted."

"Fair enough," Anderson nodded.

"Besides, you have a fair amount of influence and political clout—even after besmirching your name in a vain but admirable effort to champion Shepard's and spread his warnings. And you have Admiral Hackett's ear, whose name and opinion carries considerable weight. So if you're here, without an army of guards to subdue me, then you've already made your decision."

"I have," Anderson admitted. "I'm prepared to listen to your proposal and pass it up to my superiors with my strongest recommendation—and Hackett's."

"But," I prompted.

"But I promised to give you this first."

He handed over an OSD. "Thank you?" I tried.

"I talked to Shepard before coming here."

"You talked to a man who's being court-martialled for supposedly abandoning his duty to join a pro-human terrorist organization and committing an act of genocide before meeting with a woman who was a member of said pro-human terrorist organization," I stated more than asked.

"Yes," Anderson said frankly, "because as necessary as this might be, you and I know both know it's bullshit."

That was when I finally decided to trust him. Shepard's opinion counted for a lot, but I still had to make up my mind for myself. I still needed that last piece of evidence, that final sign, that catalyst. Now I had it.

"He asked me to look up something on the extranet, download it and give it to you. So I did."

I looked down at the OSD, then back up at him.

"Now I won't insult your intelligence by claiming I didn't scrutinize it for any illicit links or viruses, but I will say I didn't look that carefully."

Despite my instincts, I found myself believing him. "All right," I said slowly.

Anderson got to his feet. "I'll give you a few minutes in privacy before we get started." He made it to the door before pausing. "One more thing."

"Go on?"

"I wanted to thank you," he said simply. "No matter what happens, you have my thanks. For bringing Shepard back, and for standing by him when we could—_did _not."

"You're welcome."

He gave me a nod, then left the room. I waited for 31 seconds after the door closed before sliding the OSD into the computer and opening the single file contained within. 0.19 seconds before a song began playing. Naturally. Shepard did enjoy his antiquated songs. For such a modern man, he did have some old-fashioned tastes. But he did have a penchant for employing the lyrics to say things he had difficulty articulating himself. Or, in this case, to say things he couldn't say because he wasn't physically present to say them himself.

I listened to the song in its entirety. Then I played it again.

"_Well faith means little if  
We have nowhere to stand.  
This wound is deeper now  
And I'm a broken man"_

If I had to guess, I suppose he was saying that he wasn't giving up. Despite all the ludicrous idiocy and short-sighted politicking, he wouldn't give up the fight against the Reapers. Or what we had forged over the last year.

"_You held your words. A knife  
The weapon armed again.  
But I'm not walking from  
Our dream it grows as I begin."_

I make plans. It's what I do. But none of them led to anything remotely like a happy ending. Every plan or projection I had generated resulted to doom, failure and death.

"_Giving up. Not giving up. Giving up."  
"Giving up. Not giving up. Giving up."  
"Giving up. Not giving up. Giving up."  
"Giving up. Not giving up. Giving up."_

Try as I might, I don't have Shepard's optimism or his faith. His indefatigable ability to persevere despite insurmountable odds. His hope that things would get better.

"_I used to feel us so on fire.  
And now I feel heat for the truth.  
With every flame of my desire.  
I'm not giving up on you." _**(10)**

But I could try again.

* * *

_(1): Miranda is referring to her childhood under her father, Henry Lawson. _

_(2): The mind boggles._

_(3): Thankfully, that was not the case. The galaxy might truly fall apart if there were two sapients who stole and burned on such a prolific basis._

_(4): The naming of biotic techniques is similar to various martial arts and other forms of exercise. Readers will recall that Shepard made no such distinction during his many log entries. It is possible that he was unaware of the distinction, though that would be a rare exception to his usual hunger for knowledge._

(5): Shepard later told me that this line was pulled from the human science-fiction action vids RoboCop, which was released in 1987. Perhaps whoever programmed this mech was a fan.

_(6): Identify Friend or Foe; the human acronym for an identification system designed to distinguish friendly and hostile forces._

_(7): A hypothetical form of social currency earned by performing good deeds. The approval of other individuals, most often one's superiors, is common, but not required._

_(8): A human science-fiction cultural reference from the 1999 vid _The Matrix_, in which consuming a red pill meant embracing reality—and the occasionally painful truth that went with it—while consuming a blue pill signified an acceptance of illusion or fantasy. I find the fact that Carina associated concepts such as love with fantasy rather telling. And on a completely non-editorial note, I'm sure that Shepard would have offered to slip a red pill in with a cup of jasmine tea._

_(9): They did._

_(10): 'Not Giving Up,' released by Royal Wood in 2012._


End file.
